Blue Paintings and White Lilies
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: "You're beautiful, Hinata..." Two whole years of training, and they haven't been able to sleep without a lingering thought of the other. Their relationship is made up of baby-steps, slow and sweet, and learning to trust once more. He's scared of the unknown, and she's determined to fight away his fears. "You're beautiful, Naruto-kun..." naruhina.
1. Doves and Turtles

******A.N.********: Okay, so I started this last year, took a few months of break from it, returned to it and then couldn't stop writing. Two weeks later and I ****____****finally ********finished it. This writing style is different than my usual type, and yet not. Barely has any dialogue and mostly consists of details and figurative language and whatnot. I won't get into a discussion about it.**

******I'm a big fan of this couple and wanted to write about them, so here it is. I haven't even read any of it, but I have to edit it, and so I am forced to. Not that I mind, but I wanted to leave it a mystery to myself. I read my own work differently than everyone else, but I think that's the case for everyone. Needless to say, though, I was surprised I could write something like this. Very sweet, I think.**

******I guess I'll see you at the bottom, then. Enjoy.**

******Disclaimer********: Don't own ****____****Naruto********. It would be weird.**

******Doves and Turtles**

She blinked her pale eyes up at the ceiling, glistening a pallid lavender, faintly reflective and glassy, heart light and stomach fluttery, following the lines casting shadows across plaster. Her hair was spilled across her pillow, smooth tendrils of blue-black on silken white, some strands shining purple and others gleaming silver, and her hands clutched the sheets to her ample chest tightly. The moonlight illuminated the far side of the dark room, reaching out its phantom hands to touch her porcelain skin; her fine features, the delicate curves of her nose and ears and arms and shoulders, stopping just shy of where her feet were, tucked beneath a light wool blanket that remained folded at the end of the bed. Her breaths were shallow as she let her imagination run wild, picturing a dragon with glinting alabaster scales, glowing cerulean eyes, and a wide Cheshire grin of long sharp teeth and a colorless serpentine tongue tasting the air for her. She blinked again, pulling the sheets up to her little nose and furrowing her thin inky brows, the dragon drawing nearer ever so slightly.

For months now, she'd been having trouble sleeping. Some nights, she'd pace her room endlessly, filled with energy she couldn't quite explain, clasping her hands together and biting her lower lip in confusion. Other nights, she'd meditate to clear her mind, legs crossed and eyes firmly shut, fingers formed into a seal as she pulled the tangled scraps of her mind back together. Nights like tonight, however, she merely lied in bed and imagined things she'd never share with anyone else. Things like butterflies on her walls when she pulled ivory curtains together and starlight snuck through stray gaps to light up her room gently. Things like dancing mice when a guard passed by her window holding a lantern up on new moons. Things like kind ghosts caressing her cheeks when her room was alight with a full moon. Things like dragons preying on her little toes when the moon was but a waning crescent… She wiggled those toes now and then pulled her legs up to curl up in a ball on her side; safe from that opaque dragon now.

She chewed her lower lip as she felt the deep vibrations of her father's voice from the other room hum through the walls of her spacious bedroom, speaking to an elder solemnly. The heavy memory of the conversation from a week before settled upon her troubled mind again and she let out a sigh, letting her eyes fall shut for once that night. They were speaking of her again, she knew that, but she couldn't bring herself to care all that much. For once, she wanted to ignore her duties to her family. The burden of belonging to such a renowned name weighed down on her and she didn't want to think about it any longer.

What _did_ she want to think about?

Her slender fingers curled into the sheets slowly as she smiled tenderly at nothing in particular. Ramen. She wanted to think about ramen. About ramen and its homely smell, about wide cobalt eyes and wild electric blond hair and a big bright grin and a tanned face and whiskered cheeks… She wanted to think about a joyful laughter and a contagious happiness. And when she closed her gentle eyes, she could see it with a clarity that warmed her heart.

And she finally drifted to sleep that night, the phantom dragon forgotten and the voice of her father fading away.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The fire swayed tranquilly, amber sparks flying into the ebony sky as a stick picked at the wood and rekindled the flames periodically. For the umpteenth time that night, he gave a long, drawn-out yawn, sapphire eyes closing and canines flashing as he opened his mouth wide. He shook his head free of his fatigue and let himself take in the trees around him, crowded together and towering high above him, eyelids heavy and a tired frown on his face. He squinted up through the leafs and the branches, up at the moon that hid behind darkened pearly clouds and thick vegetation. It was rare they had to stay out in the woods, but the money had been gambled away again and they'd had no choice. Not even his perverted Master could talk them into an inn. He rubbed his eyes again and let out a huff of annoyance.

He was used to this. Not just his eccentric mentor's bizarre antics, or the many nights spent out in the wild with barely a blanket and makeshift pillow for shelter, but the lack of sleep he now faced. He couldn't quite explain it, but he'd been getting less and less sleep since he'd left his village on his journey. Maybe it was his excitement at his quick progress, or maybe even his worry over whether he'd come back strong enough. He didn't know. But it was taking its toll on his body. There was no such thing as sleeping in anymore. His Master may have been a lazy, good-for-nothing, bum of a man, but he was also pretty punctual when the circumstances called for it. That was one thing he could say he truly admired about the man, if anything.

"Get some sleep, kid," the man grumbled now from behind him. He only glanced back to see his mentor bury his head in his arms once more, long white mane of hair shielding him completely, sparing a rueful smile before poking at the fire some more.

He wet his lips thoughtfully. He wanted to go to sleep, he did. But the more he tried to force it, the less he could do it. Maybe he missed his home. Maybe he missed his friends. He pictured his teammate, pink hair and green eyes and horrible temper, but found no relief. Then his sensei and his fatherly smile and crazy hair, but to no avail. And the more people he thought of, the more he had to think, and the less his mind cleared. He pulled at the ends of his hair, standing from his seat on the boulder. His blankets were laid out and his body was thrumming with exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and get some rest, but his mind was swirling with thoughts and faces and it was driving him near mad; until he finally lied down to stare up at the sky, crossing his arms behind his head.

Who could he think of, he wondered, that could bring him some ease tonight? And he pondered for a long while, of his comrades and his teammates, of his friends and his allies, until his memory settled on a black-haired girl with a timid smile and a kindly gaze. He blinked his eyes wide, wider than his trademark wide, and drew an absentminded canine across his lower lip. ___Oh_, he thought. But it really didn't make any sense. He had nothing against her, really, but he wasn't all that close to her, didn't know her so well. He clicked his teeth a few times, remembering her fair skin and blushing cheeks and dark hair, and felt his mind unwind. One more yawn, the memory of her soft voice and faintly spoken words, and he was falling deeper into his dreams.

He let out a sigh in relief and the strings of his mind relaxed for once in a long time.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

Her hair reached her shoulders now, sticking to her skin as she showered early in the morning, silence settling within the house punctiliously. The tiles were white, just like her eyes and just like her skin. A lot of things in her home were white, and they always have been, for as long as she could remember. Her sheets, her pillows, her pajamas, her walls, the hallways, the robes… White is pure and she was pure. Her name was pure. Her name was white. And it always would be, for as long as she could imagine. She stared straight at a singular tile, small and perfect and ivory white. She reached out and touched one lightly, maybe to check the reality of it, to see if she had not gone mad as she had always thought she would, with so much white everywhere. It was real, like her own arm or the warm water running over her body, like invisible liquid fingers, swirling down the drain in smooth curving lines.

If she thought of a color she would prefer over that white, she would say blue. A bright blue that warmed her insides, that fluttered within her, that tickled her heart. For a second, she imagined how her sheets would look like blue, or how her walls would be blue, and she turned her face up to the calming thrum of the water, washing away her troubles, letting her thoughts trickle away one by one. After a long space of time, losing herself in the sweetness of the moment, she shut off the water and wrung out her hair, wrapping a towel around her body and stepping out to ready for the day. The robes she wore were pink, a change from the mundane, colorless world she knew, and she walked out to find some paint, mind overcome by a creativity she could not place.

And a force seemed to drive her from there.

"What are you doing?" her older cousin asked when he walked by the courtyard later that morning. She pulled back the finely lacquered black brush from the canvass that had started out white, plain and blank and boring, and was now filled with hues of sapphires and ultramarines and teals and azures and lovely grays and blacks. He stepped down from the study to join her outside, taking in her artwork with a speculative eye worthy of a wise old man beyond their time. The nod she received caused her to smile in a way he wasn't accustomed to. "It's quite lovely," he murmured after a minute of appreciative silence. "What do you plan to do with it?"

And she thought for a moment, for quite a long moment, about just what she could do with such a piece, before responding, slowly and carefully, "I'll hang it up in my room."

"You'd be hiding something worth praise, cousin," he said. "Are you sure you want that?"

Like hiding a koi in the pitch black darkness of a pond on a moonless night, like blanketing a beautiful phoenix with cold and heavy shadows, like shielding a delicate rosebud from light…it would be heartbreaking. She let her white eyes trace over the colors and thought of her room, endlessly pasty walls and milky sheets and snowy curtains, and thought of the way butterflies and mice and ghosts and dragons visited her late at night. "Yes," she finally whispered. "Yes, I'm sure."

He helped her carry it safely back to her room, hang it up somewhere he thought suitable for such a piece and continued to admire it for a few long moments, before turning to her and telling her he'd make some white tea, if she wanted to join him. She shook her head and he gave her a vaguely perplexed look, for Hinata Hyuga hardly ever refused to keep anyone company, eyes reflecting a strange lavender, a faint primrose, in the sunlight that broke through the parting of her ghostly curtains.

"Let's drink black cherry this time. I've wanted to try it for a while now."

And the liquid was a dark crimson, a lot like the blood that she had spat out once upon a time ago, when her cousin had still hated her so much, and it was sweeter than sweet, sweeter than anything she had ever dared to taste, and she drank and she drank till her lips were stained red and her cousin was near falling asleep from how drowsy the tea made him feel, pallid eyes unfocused and a yawn breaking his composure. Her father found them idly talking about the color white, shaking his head with those stern eyes, and walking away with his deep thoughts.

Her cousin hated the color white, just like she did.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

Sweat trickled down his tanned skin in glowing streams, golden strands of hair sticking to his forehead and ears; clear, salty liquid slithering down along the lean muscles of his back as he balanced carefully on a thin pole. Discipline was the key to control, and control was the key to his concentration, and to concentrate would lead to patience, and patience would lead to more power eventually. His yellow brows pulled together as another bead of sweat rolled down between his eyes, along the bridge of his nose, distracting him a moment. He could feel the sun on his bare back, scalding him, and the wood beneath his feet, carefully positioned so he wouldn't fall, hot beneath him. The wood was not smooth, scratching into the bottoms of his feet, and it became more and more uncomfortable as time passed. Ten feet below him, where he was up high, whistled his mentor happily.

He opened one cobalt eye in agitation, teeth gritting in his frustration. He shifted just an inch, and the entire structure, feeble as it was, swayed beneath him. He caught himself quickly, repositioning himself. His mentor ___tsk__ed_ cheerfully, "Patience."

He gave an aggravated huff, refraining from wiping the sweat from his brow, building there the hotter it became, the higher the sun climbed in the sky. Sunlight gleamed through the leafs, casting yellow-green streams around him. The forest came alive during the day, birds chirping and squirrels chasing one another. He wanted to watch them play, he wanted to see what else lived here in these trees and shrubs and wild grass, but he wasn't allowed. He had to stay put. His curiosity burned inside him, burned stronger than the pain in his muscles from staying still for so long. He wanted to move, to ___see _just how far away the river was, the one he could hear rolling over rocks and mud. He wanted to ___touch _the grass that swayed down below him, tickling the very edges of the wood. He wanted to pick the flowers that opened up their petals to the sun, vibrant and lovely; he wanted to see if they smelled as good as they looked.

But controlling his impulses was something he had to master, and that meant keeping still, having self-restraint. But that was something he had a hard time doing. He wasn't one to idle about. Anyone who'd spoken two words to him knew that.

And if he stayed still for too long, if his mind cleared too much, his thoughts would stray to his troubles, and that was the last thing he wanted. He hated sadness, he hated hate, he hated anger, but he was filled with so ___much _of it. The sorrow he felt was recurring, just under the surface of some great mask of joy he'd created some time ago, mended out of his broken memories. The hatred he felt was all consuming, ___just barely _contained inside of him. And his anger... That was the worst. What was it directed at? Who was it for? What caused it? The questions grew and grew and he couldn't grasp an answer. It was there, just out of his reach, just an inch from his fingertips, but he had to keep still, he had to be patient. Perhaps the answer would come to him, one day soon. Perhaps by the time it did, he wouldn't be angry or hateful or sad anymore. Perhaps he'd reach a sort of enlightenment by then, like Buddha. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't feel this never ending sorrow, this continuous hate, this horrible anger...

"Well," his mentor murmured, taking a sip of sake. "Seems you're making progress."

He didn't respond. His cobalt eyes were dark, deep in thought, staring down at his hands, folded in his lap. To reach ultimate peace, to be happy, that's what he wanted. Just to be happy. Just to laugh everyday. Just, for once, to forget that, despite how strong he was, he was still a monster on the inside. He didn't want to cry anymore, feel lonely anymore, feel the despair that had been dropped on him since birth. But when? When would it all stop?

He let his eyes fully close, bowing his head as the leafs swayed, sunlight breaking over him in a sudden burst of brilliant color.

And if Jiraiya had to admit, shielding his eyes from the hot-bright yellow light, the boy almost looked like a savior, golden rain all around him, glowing. Almost like an angel, if the feathers of the startled birds fluttering all around him didn't look so much like wings. He let a smile curl his lips, setting aside his sake for the moment.

It was a reassuring thought.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

Ramen did taste delicious.

She'd taken up the habit of eating a bowl every Friday after training, at the shop he'd always so heavily praised. By now, she was sure she'd tried at least half of what was on the menu. Every bowl she'd eaten had been her absolute favorite. The owner would give her a gentle smile as he fried some shrimp, making small talk with her. And his daughter would always compliment her, always sighing about how pretty she was. She always left the shop feeling better about herself, and so she never failed to show up every week.

She set aside the cup of water, smiling gratefully at the elderly man and standing from her seat. "Thank you very much," she murmured, handing some neatly folded bills from her little purse to him. She tucked it back into her pocket and bowed respectfully.

"Come by any time," he replied, collecting the plates she'd used. She ducked out of the shop, melding into the afternoon crowds once more. Her muscles hurt and she smelled of sweat, but that was the proof of her progress, the proof that she was getting stronger. And so she was proud of it.

The road was dark and bright at the same time, burning her delicate eyes when she stared for too long, the sounds of laughter and aimless chatter bouncing around her, off black asphalt and sanded wood. She swayed and rolled with the people, all moving in the same direction but heading toward different places. A bearded old man to his home to plant the seeds he kept in his pocket; a shapely woman with her giggly toddler back to her husband after a long day of shopping; some mischievous children running through the streets; and she to her home to rest. She felt herself smile very slightly, a light flutter in her body. She was glad that people found their own happiness. She was happy knowing others could be happy.

As her shadow, lithe and serene as she was, crossed with the corner, she stopped to think a moment. The thing that made her happiest, though, more than anything else... She gave a sigh, the orange and pink hues of sundown casting lovely shapes across her porcelain face, and carried on with her walk. The memory of wild blond hair came to mind, a bright smile and a careless laughter, and she almost gave her own laugh. ___Yes, _she thought, ___that's what makes me the most happy._

_His _happiness.

The clash of a blue portrait of passionate strokes broke the dull and boring colorless world that was her room. She pulled off her clothes and fell in exhaustion onto her bed, body thrumming and muscles complaining. The cool silk of her milky sheets, the soft cotton of her pallid blankets, brushing her bare skin, brought her a strange peace, for just a moment. She nearly blended in with the sea of her bed, satin sheets flowing around her as she curled her legs up toward her body, and then the shock of her black hair spilling around her head, her black lashes softly brushing against the tops of her gentle cheekbones, her inky brows relaxing as she sighed.

Rarely had she ever given a thought to herself the way other girls did. She'd always been quite comfortable with her body, though there were times that she would wonder at her quick growth. There were times when the sudden yet graceful curves of her hips would bang against wooden tables or brush against other people, where they would make a casual floral skirt flare out almost alluringly, made innocent movements not-so-innocent. And then her breasts, full and soft and porcelain like the rest of her, with pale coral buds she never dared touch, sensitive and heavy when she crossed her arms, drew the eyes of men and women alike, and made her blush and hide behind her clueless yet observant teammates. She wasn't necessarily ashamed of her body, just perplexed. Milk had never been a part of her regular diet, just an occasional drink to go with a sweet she nibbled on when she was in high spirits, seldom as that already was. And so her growth did cause a bit of confusion in her, one she never voiced to anyone.

There were times, however, when she'd overhear a girl in her age group complaining about her body, how small her breasts were and how narrow her hips were, and she'd catch a sly glare being shot at her as they spoke, and that's when the shame would start. She'd stand before a mirror, looking herself over, trying to hide her curves with a loose shirt or a thick sweater, but there was always a reason not to; the excessive clothing would interfere with her missions, the places she'd have to travel to would be too hot, she would be uncomfortable, she didn't look ladylike enough to her father, her friends would question her... And she'd be back to square one, crossing her arms over her chest as she passed by a group of gossiping girls and trying to learn to be comfortable all over again.

Her nails were white at the tips, and a slight shade of pink downwards, carefully maintained and clipped and thawed into a simple and pleasant arch of a pallid tip, each and every one. Her fingers were slender and fragile, long and feminine, leading down to a small hand, to a tiny wrist, and up a delicate arm that was soft and smooth, to a shoulder and curved very gently, up a graceful throat and then a small jaw and a slight chin. Her legs weren't long but they were gracile, down to little feet with tiny toes. She couldn't say that she was athletic, nor that she was strong, but she could almost say that she was pretty, as she blinked up at the ceiling and smoothed a hand down her thigh.

Her hair was long and black, glossy and shiny in even the dimmest of lights. She always cut it straight, so as to keep it from getting too messy, and made sure to take good care of it. She remembered when she would keep it short, knowing that it would most definitely get in the way. But as she grew older and became accustomed to the harsher ways of the outside world, the harsher ways of a shinobi, she found that that wasn't the case. Her hair never got in the way.

She did.

Her hand found the end of the sheets, pulling them over her naked body, closing her eyes for just a little bit, trying to hide from her nightmares, and the gentle ghosts trying to caress her skin.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The cream he rubbed on his wound was green, like the leafs that brushed his skin as he tried to settle back against the rough bark of the tree. His favorite sweater was in shreds down below, caught between branches and twigs, a bright orange that almost burned his eyes in the sunlight. His shirt was folded in his lap, draped over his left leg and brushing his right as he straightened his back to pop his aching spine; the muscles in his stomach straining, and then relaxing as he sighed, rolling his shoulders. He wrapped a bandage around his arm, covering the wound and the ointment alike, stretching out his arm when he was done. He searched along his legs over his pants for another wound, and then his hips and then his stomach, smearing the medicine under the outline of his ribs and gritting his white teeth against the burn.

His Master watched from down below, chewing happily on a bright red dumpling, a hint of a smile curling the end of his lips. His white hair shook in the wind, closing his eyes as the sound of a frustrated growl left his apprentice. The kid was strong, he had to admit, with an uncanny resemblance to his father; sunny blond hair, honest blue eyes, and a determination he couldn't deny. And he was no whiner, taking the brunt of any lesson with a set face and a stubborn look in his brilliant eyes. Even now, he dressed his own wounds, only grimacing every now and again as he cleaned out the dirt in them. He took a sip of his sake, raising his brows when the boy gave a relieved huff of breath.

He clipped the tiny metal clasp to keep the bandages in place, tightening the lid of the ointment, and setting aside the supplies, checking his wrappings before pulling his t-shirt on, a black one rather than his original blue; it had been ruined just like his jacket. He turned his hands up toward the sun, feeling his eyebrows pull together. They were rough now, covered in faint scars that were still healing, callouses marring the flesh. His body was always tired and muscles complaining, scars slashed across his back and stomach, the heaviness of his work shown on his face. Another seven months and his training would be complete, and he could finally come back home and start back up on his goals. But what would become of him?

He's spent seventeen months training vigorously, sweating away the remaining baby fat on his body, working his body to limits he hadn't imagined. If he wasn't sleeping in a wayward inn off the side of a measly dirt road with trees scratching their claw-like branches against the wood of the windows, he was sleeping in the woods, curled against a boulder or tree, cold and tired and homesick. He hadn't known anything else but the harshness of travel, had almost forgotten how to feel comfortable; though he couldn't forget the taste of his favorite ramen, or the reason he'd gone on this journey in the first place, or, surprisingly, the eyes of a timid girl with a gentle smile.

He didn't know how he would fare when he came back.

They found a bathhouse a few miles out, and the water was hot and felt like fiery heaven on his skin, the steaming liquid licking up his arms and chest as he sunk deeper down, kissing his shoulders and shoulder blades and then his throat and chin, until he was submerged, his electric hair dancing in the water and brilliant blue eyes blinking in something akin to wonder as he was enveloped in warmth. The pads of his calloused fingers traced over the rough stone of the ground, let his torn nails scrape the rock, before he broke the surface to take a deep breath, blond strands sticking to his cheeks and ears and neck. The breaths escaping him joined the steam, thick all around him, his head tilting up toward the ceiling, staring through the gaps left between the wooden boards, up at the nighttime sky and at the full moon, bleaching the night of its color. Ripples of water moved with him as he sat back against a boulder, shoulder blades brushing against cold rock, mind strangely empty.

He was a boy of curiosity, filled with endless questions and thoughts, eyes burning with all the things he ever wants to say and a string of words knotted together just at the tip of his tongue, one step away from letting it all unravel in a burst of color and laughter. And so it was absolutely abnormal, completely unnatural, entirely irregular, utterly bizarre that, for just this one moment, his mind was perfectly blank save for the image of two wide lavender eyes and a sweetly pink blush on a porcelain face.

And it was the last thing he expected to see.

The sheets in the inn weren't crisp like the way he'd left his at home, and the pillow wasn't as fluffy as he had once preferred, but he couldn't complain. Anything was better than the ground outside. Even the paper thin blanket he pulled up to his chest as his Master snored on the other side of the room. His eyes strayed from the crack on the ceiling to the window he'd forgotten to shut, unsure whether to squint or not, the moonlight spilling into the room and painting the ground and air a silvery bright color. He reached a hand out to feel the phantom silken dress of the moon, to see if it was as soft as it looked, and watched his hand go from a shadowy brown to a startling white in a split second, the roughness of his fingers and uneven knobby knuckles smoothing out perfectly.

He blinked, suddenly hesitant for a reason he could not fathom, and pulled his hand back into the safety of the blankets, paper-thin as it was, curling into his side to stare at the moonlight. When the unreasonable fear passed, he reached his fingertips out once more, peeking from beneath the blanket to touch the light one more time. The color was mesmerizing, inhumanly lovely, and he almost smiled.

It looked a lot like ___her _skin.

And he almost felt peaceful.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

When she stretched her body out every morning after a shower, not a bone popped and not a muscle strained. She was balanced and tranquil, although her brain was viciously mangled by her worries. As she pulled her clothing on to meet her teammates, cloth slipping over her skin and tightening around her appropriately, she let her mind touch upon those worries for a second, wondering of a grinning, cheerful boy and when he'd come back. A quick shake of her head, and she pulled a brush through her inky locks, looking away from her reflection in the mirror sitting before her. There was no use hurting herself.

It was a simple nod in greeting from her cousin, heading off for a mission, a blink of pallid eyes from her little sister, and a rare and affectionate pat on the head from her father, a quick breakfast that sat cooling in the kitchen, and she was out the door and off toward the meeting place.

Her short heels scraped against the dirt road, nodding at fellow villagers that passed her by. The smell of different flowers, freshly cooked pork meat, ground up herbs and sizzling spices, drying mud and fried fruit, filled the air and she breathed in deeply. There was no home like the one she'd grown up in, even if she'd been protected her entire life, secluded for so long. There was something about the way the birds sang every morning, how the leafs danced in the wind, how lively the people were; it made her feel safe and sound. The kids running past her legs giggled and squealed and she smiled to herself along with them, the mothers talking together and watching them closely when they strayed too far, workers passing by and bowing respectfully, wheel barrows rolling unevenly by, filled with wheat and bags of rice. Pots of flowers and water lined the streets, messy children running through the alleyways with mud staining their clothing and wild hair, and she wondered if that was how ___he __had _lived his childhood; running, laughing, playing, messily.

She ducked beneath a sign for dumplings, briefly hearing the pots and plates knock against one another within the shop, before joining the outside world again. A young girl held her baby brother's hand as they hurried through the crowds toward a candy shop on the corner. She watched them until they got inside, nodding to herself when they were safely within. The village was always bustling, sunny and happy, when she reached the side of the village that wasn't as joyful, she always felt the gentle look she always wore melt into a worried frown and a furrowed brow, her eyes tightening just a bit. Pipes shot through the streets, between buildings, and she averted her gaze when children played on them, knowing she would fret and try to pull them back down to safety. But if she'd learned anything from the unhappy part of the village, it was that there was no such thing as a good person here.

Not even Hinata Hyuga.

The streets were dark and shaded from the sun, drunks stumbling through the streets, women standing out on corners in promiscuous clothing; she kept to herself and shrunk away when people came too near. If she thought of the happy boy in this unhappy place, she'd feel safe for just a little while. Just enough so that she could reach the outskirts toward the woods, slipping past more pipes and vulgarities, small shabby shacks that could never pass as a home, but with a full family inside, and into the training grounds. A shinobi, she knew, could handle anything. Even the terrible side of a village. But she always found herself blinking away tears and gasping as a pain tore at her throat and heart, cursing herself for humanity.

If she was a savior, she would save them. Where was a god when you needed one?

When her back brushed the bark of a tree, she slipped down to the ground and hugged herself, and sobbed openly, sparkling crystals rolling down her porcelain cheeks, and wished and prayed that ___he _would come home soon. She'd lose herself without him. It was a horrifying realization to know that she was something less when he was gone.

Enough to cry in the middle of the woods.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The sting was dull now that he was older, but when he looked at a family playing in the park, he'd sometimes feel a pang inside. He'd grown up alone, and it was a wonder that he was even alive. He lived off of instant ramen and toast for a long time, maybe a spoiled glass of milk on the side, maybe stale water, but never something nutritious and fresh. For a time, he'd hid in his apartment, provided to him by the Third Hokage, for fear of someone breaking in, but the room he had was impossible to reach unless you were an agile troublemaker like him, or a skilled shinobi. The only people he's ever seen around his place was always a sensei there to scold him or an official there to hand him money for groceries. Sometimes he'd spend too much money on candy, back when he was stupid enough to think that was what the money was meant for, and was left with nothing but a snarling stomach and an exhaustion in his body he didn't understand, and he'd have to steal money from someone else, rarely ever being caught, and he'd stumble across a small ramen shop at a corner at the better part of the village with a nice old man and a sweet-faced daughter, offering him a hot bowl of homemade ramen, heaven for the smallest sum of his little money, and a nice glass of water.

He never liked going out at night when he was a child, because that meant grinning mean men that smelled bad and creepy ladies that pulled at his cheeks and called him cute, rats squeaking in alleyways and cats hissing at him as he passed. The nighttime spelled danger in big and angry red letters, and he didn't like that, no matter how much of a troublemaker he was. In his room, though, the nighttime meant beauty, outside his smudged window, twinkling stars and bright moons and lovely stillness; even as a child, he'd known how to appreciate small things when he had to. And being alone meant endless amounts of time to think. And that's what he did, was think, his mind not just an empty space like all the adults said it was.

But now nighttime meant rest. Some sleep before the next round of training, some relief from all the work.

He'd always wondered about the nice side of the village, the side where people could rest peacefully after the sun went down and the side where fear wasn't a common concept. He'd never had a reason to go over there until he'd enrolled into the Academy at the age of seven, and even then he was shy and unsure, even shocked at how open the people were. So unlike his side of the village, where pipes almost outnumbered the people standing outside, whereas the villagers were crowds and bumping into one another on the nice side. When he jumped down from his apartment, he always went toward the brighter side, because his place was the halfway point, a place overlooked and ignored, but tall and watchful, and joined the crowds as if he belonged, as if he was one of them. But when he jumped the other way, he knew he really did belong, because he had grown in these streets and he had known the common concept of fear, the despair that underlined every thing ever done there, and he knew which pipe led where and which pipe was safest, if any, to play on. He knew it even now, as he was sat beside his Master in a boat, heading toward who knew where to train again, the shapes of the pipes and the place he'd hid in as a child to escape the hateful glares of those who lived on the sad side of the village. He knew that oil, black and thick, would drip down into his hair, paler then than it was now, and that it would mix with his sweat and roll down his dark skin like black tears, kiss his lashes and then his nose and then his lips, stain his shirt; and he'd watch emotionlessly, listening to children that should be as unhappy as him, laugh and play outside his hiding spot within the pipes, and wait for someone to find him, hope for them to see him, and sigh when they never do.

The only river he remembered in his early childhood was made of oil and grime, and stuck to his fingers horribly, thick, and was hot and smelled like dead fish and bad meat. Sometimes he'd visit the bad side of town, to see it just one more time, and find it unchanged and full of bad memories. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he had come from there, and he belonged there. He harbored a monster within him, and belonged with all the other bad people there. That was his solution. He always came back to remind himself that. And he knew one of the things he was sure to do when he went back home to his village was visit that side of town once more to remind himself again.

He dipped two fingers in the river, leaning over the edge of the boat, to recall that other rivers did exist, and felt its smooth coolness beneath his fingertips. This was good, not like the river of black he'd known as a child. This was something someone with a good childhood had known, someone from the nice side of the village. Someone like the girl who smiled at him in his dreams, who followed his thoughts thousands of miles away.

This was something he'd always longed to know. And now he knew it, as he grew stronger, unable to enjoy it for the heaviness of his duties weighing on his back, pulling his hand away as his Master began the lesson with a connection to the lilies floating in the river along them, delicate as life itself.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

"Why does the caged bird sing?" her little sister asked one morning as they fed the doves they kept in the open courtyard, within a silver cage that glistened in the weak sun. They shook their pure white wings out and hopped closer to eat and drink and shower. She wasn't sure how to answer that. Their cousin had always been the more insightful one; this question would've been better asked of him. Yet she found herself genuinely intrigued by it, and felt it would be better if she herself answered it. His answer would've been cold, simple, and tactless.

It was a good question. Why ___does _the caged bird sing? She could never find the proper answer, although her sister might've already lost interest by now, her mind preoccupied by her training and obligations and such. She searched for it as she watched wild birds soar across the sky, just outside the bars the doves dwelled behind, and wondered if, perhaps, they felt longing, if they, too, watched with their beady black eyes as other birds took to the skies while they remained trapped within a feeble cage they could never break.

And then it reached a deeper point, wondering if her cousin felt the same as they did, trapped by a mark on his forehead, by the destiny he had been given since birth. And then if ___he _felt that way, with that mark on his stomach she'd caught a glimpse of when he'd stretched once in class, before quickly looking away to preserve his modesty. And then if shinobi as a ___whole _felt that way, trapped by their duties. And she felt a thrum of sadness within her, because she realized that, ___yes_, she did feel that way. Because she could never have a family of her own, with the man she wished to have it with, at any time she wanted, without the thought of the missions that awaited her afterward, the things she still needed to do, just because she'd trained for it, learned it, practiced it.

So why ___did _the caged bird sing?

She thought of it on missions, flitting through treetops and spinning around branches, catching herself on steady bark and ignoring the splinters wedging into her skin. She thought of it as she slammed her palm into an enemy and watched him fly in the opposite direction, as she ducked and swung a kunai at another, unafraid for just a moment as she thought and she thought of just how to answer such a complex question. As she slept in a sleeping bag that night beside a fire with her teammates bickering as they finished their meals; as she packed her things the next morning and as she headed back to her village. And as she watched a bird flutter its wings and chirp its song to wake the forest around her, she supposed she found the answer and said it when she'd slipped off her shoes and made her way back to her room, putting away her things and spotting her sister practicing her calligraphy in the courtyard, walking up and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, the same hand that had taken out her enemy before, murmured it before leaving to take her bath and wash away her guilt and stress and sadness.

"The caged bird sings for freedom."

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

"If you cut off the head of a turtle, it'll still be alive, it'll still function and eat and blink. It just won't really be alive, or function, or eat," his Master said as he pulled the meat from the bone, fingers greasy and stained black, fire roaring beside him as he cooked game for them to eat. Its been days since they've slept in beds, been beneath shelter, spoken to other people, or even bathed. A quick dip in an icy river was the closest he's had lately. Twigs were stuck in his hair and he didn't dare pull them out for how painful it was, and he missed eating normal food. Berries and squirrel meat were getting on his nerves.

"Why?" he asked, picking a berry from the branch he held and popping it in his mouth, sapphire eyes burning with curiosity. Never in his childhood had he thought to cut off the head of a turtle, though he saw them every now and again swimming in the clear waters hidden deep within the woods he ran to to get away from the creepy ladies and mean men, blinking back emotionlessly at him when he picked them up from soaking up the sunlight happily. He thought it would be cruel to be anything but nice to them, when all they did was swim and sit around all day. But apparently his Master had not been the same, because he'd probably done it habitually in his childhood.

"Well, think about it," his Master replied, washing down the meat with the squeezed juice of a few oranges they'd found, diluted by a few drops of water. He wiped the juice from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and sighed. "Think real close."

He really couldn't mask his frustration now with how tired he was. His patience had worn thin and hung by a fragile string, ready to snap at any moment, and he didn't want to think what would happen once it did. And so he found himself unreasonably annoyed by the challenge. In the time they'd spent traveling, he hadn't once seen a turtle anywhere. He didn't miss them, never gave a thought of ever seeing them, but now he found himself purposely looking for one as they walked through the forest, peeking over river banks at stray logs floating in the water for any turtles resting there, and spitting angrily when he found none. He watched lizards crawl over rocks, stopping at small sunspots and waiting there for almost hours before ever moving a step and heading in the same direction they had been before. And he would almost wonder why, but the thought would float away and he would close his eyes in exasperation.

His Master, he knew, would be amused by his search, even spare a smile over their troubles as he made fires to cook a few simple catches of fish. Never telling him the answer, and never answering his curious looks. Through the trees and the shrubs and the thick brush of green all around him, he searched and searched for the answer. Every time he heard the river rolling over rocks and splashes of water where fish jump to taste the air and rock breaks the steady flow, he was drawn to see if he could, perhaps, find at least one turtle to answer the question. But he wasn't sure what he would do if he did find one. Certainly not cut its head off. He's never been one for cruelty, never been the mean child in the group; not the humble one, nor the kind one, but at least never the mean one. He wouldn't want to hurt it, inflict any pain on it, just to answer one little question. It most certainly wouldn't do anything but sit there and stare back, harmless as he cut its head off.

He squinted as they walked, not wanting to rub his eye because he knew he'd get dirt in there somewhere. His backpack was worn out, too, the straps torn and stretched out, and small now from his growth spurt; he had it slung over his arm, carrying his blanket and kunai, and what little bit of clothing still fit him, consisting of one white sleeveless shirt and his sleeping cap that he didn't wear anymore because it was the one thing he couldn't bear to get dirty. He'd knotted his forehead protector around his bicep with a rope, the old material torn and left in tatters somewhere in a desert a few months back. He only wore some loose mesh armor his Master had given him, muttering about it being too small for himself as it was, and his orange pants, torn at the ends to work as shorts and kept unbuttoned because his hips had outgrown them. He was barefoot because his sandals no longer fit, feet almost black from the mud and dirt built up. He didn't want to think about how matted down his hair was or how disheveled he looked.

Inadequacy was the last thing on his mind.

This time when he heard the tinkling of water in the distance, he didn't run up in excitement to catch a glimpse of the unique sparkle of the water, didn't push his way between the trees to see if he could find what he was looking for, only to have his Master shove him through and into the water and force him to dry everything he had and delay the trip and end up eating fish and berries again and trying to cleanse the water enough to drink. He just waited until he saw it through a simple gap in the trees, casually strayed off the trail and slipped through the trees to stand carefully on the river bank, feeling only the edges of his lips curl up when he saw, resting there on a boulder, were a few turtles in the sun, stretching their little legs out. He set aside his backpack and untied his forehead protector, folding his pants atop the backpack and pulling off his mesh armor, anticipating his Master shoving him into the water, which was a nice temperature between warm and cold. His bare feet slipped over algae covered rocks, feeling tiny fish tickle his sides as he swam back up to the surface. His back bumped into another boulder, and he glanced to find a turtle staring straight back at him, shell shining in the sunlight and green claws scratching lightly against the stone.

Its head was a fir green with wavy lines of pallid olive starting at the tips of its tiny nostrils and disappearing into its shell, stretching out to its claws and short pointed tail. The pupils were endlessly black and the irises were bright and the color of early spring grass. The claws themselves were black and sharp, but harmlessly scraping against the rock as it inched closer, letting him observe it. The shell was outlined in a strange yellow, spanning the underbelly, streaks of thick black and thin canary, the whole of the shell being a dark forest green. From the ends of its stoic eyes was a bittersweet red that faded away just before touching the shadow of its shell, like a quick, absentminded paint stroke. It was faintly covered in algae, still sheeted in water, soaking the sun in with vigor.

He didn't dare reach over to touch it, kept his hands placed lower down on the rock, slipping over the algae, feeling seaweed washed in from the ocean wrap itself around his legs, and the flutter of tiny fish brush his stomach. It was minding its own business, already letting its eyes slowly move away from him disinterestedly to watch a large fish hop out of the water in sparkling droplets and glistening silver scales. He pushed away from the rock, starting when he felt a tiny scratch against his arm, and catching something uneven and small in his right hand, swimming toward a log that was, at the moment, unused. He hoisted himself on, the bark leathery and worn beneath his knuckles, and opened his hand to see what he'd caught, expecting to see a stray seashell or maybe some trash some thoughtless person had tossed into the water upstream, but blinked his brilliant blue eyes in surprise when he found a baby turtle hiding in its shell. He brought it up to look at, noting how tiny it was compared to its parent. When he was a child, a baby would fill up his palm, its tiny claws gripping his thumb and wrist as it panicked silently in his hand. But now it hardly filled the center, miniature claws reaching out hesitantly to paw at his palm. He found himself strangely endeared by it. He moved his hand out toward the sunlight for it, and it paused for a moment, enjoying the warmth.

No, he could never cut off its head just to answer a stupid question. It would be unfair. Its family waited on the boulder, completely unaware that he had taken their youngest, and he felt a pang of guilt. If he had had a family, he wouldn't have wanted to be taken away, never mind the fact that they were animals and most likely didn't care. He watched the water continue to roll and drift and swirl around stones, and only moved when his stomach began to growl, slipping back into the water to return the baby, placing it safely beside the rest on the boulder, smiling as it scampered off toward the other babies to play. He ducked back into the water, letting the grim wash from his hair, before pushing off toward the muddy bank and pulling himself out by the roots of a tree that had grown far too close. He sat down on another rock to let himself dry, closing his eyes as the smell of cooking fish reached him from where his Master knelt behind him.

A hint of a smile touched the edge of his lips, pushing the wood about with a stick to keep the flames going. "So, did you come up with a good reason?" he asked his apprentice lightly.

After a few long moments, the river's musical movements being the only sound between them, he stretched his arms above his head, not quite grinning at the turtles still enjoying the sunlight. "Because its will to live is stronger than anything else," he replied, reaching out for his forehead protector to knot around his arm once more.

His Master did not answer him, did not praise him on his intelligence. He merely sliced at the cooked fish and handed the boy a chunk to eat. It wasn't that he hadn't the heart to correct him, it was just that he found his answer much more pleasant than the reality. A turtle was cold-blooded, that's why it enjoyed the sunlight so much, and it meant that the blood circulated very, very slowly through their bodies. When you cut off their head, they're not alive anymore, but they still react. It had nothing to do with any "will" to live; just simple biology. As a child, some forty-odd years ago, he'd found the head of a turtle lying outside of a shop; the cook had cut off the head to make soup. He'd felt sympathy, anger, and sadness for the turtle, and had tried to feed it some berries he'd found in some bushes nearby, and even if it ate them, the berries still rolled out the end of its severed head, and it slowly became unresponsive until the blood stopped flowing. When the shade the shop cast had grown and covered them both, there was nothing to keep the blood warm and going, and it died there in the dark.

_But_, Jiraiya thought as he bit into a berry himself, ___I'll let the kid think what he wants. _The optimism he had was a nice change from the life they'd been leading recently.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

She pulled her immaculate fingers through fine raven hair, keeping it back with a tiny lily hair clip, pink and fragile in her hair. She'd been trained her entire life to take good care of herself, paying special attention to her face and hair and appearance. She had grown tired of it many times throughout her childhood, often pulling away when a maid tried to braid her hair for her, and muttering (unladylike, they'd say) that she wanted to cut all her hair off just so that she didn't have to do this every morning. Her father, in what he assumed was a punishment, had granted her wish to show her how much she would regret it. She never did, but she never voiced that. And so her hair was cut annually into a fine chop around her chin, and it kept her from fretting too much about it. Her skin, however, was another story. She wasn't allowed to take very long showers, just long baths, and she ___must _put creams on her skin just before bed, after her bath, and after her morning shower. She would have to wear a robe as she put it on and make sure she was completely dry before putting her clothes on, which had to be light-colored and refreshing.

When she'd entered the Academy, she was allowed to wear black, to train herself to be stealthy, and all the pampering and care was switched to torturous practice and harsh training. Her father was as merciless in this aspect as he was in everything else, and it should not have been surprising, yet she found herself surprised anyway. "___But_," he'd said anyway, "___you're still a lady. Act like one_." And so every morning and every night, she put on special creams to keep her skin as smooth as it was. And every meal she was careful and mannered, and every word she spoke was thought through and planned. She was what most would call a puppet, a doll placed up to admire and smile at. An actress taught a role she could never break from.

That is, until she met that boy.

He was feared by many people, and shunned for reasons she could not fathom. He seemed genuine, seemed kind and friendly, with wide innocent eyes that spoke volumes of his hardships and burned with curiosity and ___life_, and a big white grin that flashed often when anyone paid him any mind. There was once, she remembered, that their eyes had met, and he offered a humble smile, barely a curve of his lips, with warm blue eyes that warmed her inside, and she'd blushed and looked away. She supposed that was when she decided to ___really _look at him. And he was something else. His hair was wild and a bright blond that, when the breeze passed by and the sun was just right, would sway and some strands would glow brighter than others. His eyes were a brilliant blue and his skin was tan, thin black whiskers painted on his cheeks, and a sharp nose. There was a look in his eyes she couldn't understand, fiery and every bit as real as the rest of him. It was a mixture of sadness, desperation, hate, hope, and determination, swirling in his eyes like fish in a pond.

And then her entire world was cracking beneath it. He had become a part of her life and he didn't even know, would perhaps never know, but he was changing her bit by bit, and she didn't hate it. Who she was becoming, she believed she would really like. Her routines were breaking and her idealistic mindset was slipping, all because of a trouble making boy that sat all by himself when all the other children had gone home with their parents. She was drawn in by the pleading look in his eyes, the way he watched from afar as children ran to their parents when they were scolded for being near him, the fact that he was off-limits, and it confused her. He seemed like a nice boy, like a hard worker and the honest type, so why was he considered so dangerous?

She always spent her time wondering where he went when everyone else went home. She saw him after the lessons were over, sitting on a swing or walking slowly toward the fence to lean back against it and stare at the sky, ignoring the looks the people passing by gave him or the glares some sent toward him, hands in the pockets of his raggedy shorts and sigh when a pebble was kicked at him and scratched his shin. Sometimes his blond brows would pull together in frustration, and sometimes they'd furrow in his sadness, but she would make it a habit to distinguish the different expressions that crossed his face, so that if she ever worked up the nerve to speak to him, she would know what that look was that he might give her.

There was a memory that she cherished very deeply, kept within a polished box deep inside her heart, atop a shined little table, with swirls of white along the lid just like the ones he drew on his papers in the Academy, locked tight, and she checked it every day.

It was of the time she made him smile, all on her own. The one thing he wanted, it seemed, was a small purse in the shape of a frog, tiny and green and cute. He'd pressed his hand to the glass, look down sadly, and then trudged away slowly. She'd watched him a moment, looking over to find her father busy speaking to some shop owner, and then reached into her obi for the little purple purse her grandfather had given her, which held only ten golden coins; it paled in comparison to how much her father carried. Carefully, she slipped through the crowds toward the shop he'd been at, and noted how much it cost, nodding to herself in relief and entering the shop. She had to stand on her tiptoes to see the elderly man on the other side of the counter, who smiled at her warmly, seeming to find her charming, and asked her how he could help her. "May I have that frog please?" she'd asked in her timid voice, to which his smile widened slightly. She placed the coins in his withered palm and took the purse in her little hands and bowed in respect to the old man, slipping back outside to join her father once more. She'd slept with the purse beside her head that night, and shyly brought it to school the next day, hiding it in her bag until the lessons were finished and everyone was heading home. She found him sitting outside and walked up to him quietly, eyes lowered and blush burning her little cheeks, handing the purse to him and then turning and running back to where her father stood talking to her uncle. When she glanced back, he was smiling warmly at her; perhaps he'd forgotten over time. But she never had.

She never would.

She set aside her brush and unclasped her hair, letting it fall down her back. He had changed many things about her, but the decision to grow out her hair once more was all her own. Even if she had to take care of it, it was a sign of how much she'd grown. Perhaps she'd cut it all again soon, to make things simpler once more, but for now she wanted to enjoy it. Just enough to be able to have good reason when her father demanded to know why she ___insisted _to keep her hair short.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

******A.N.********: Hopefully that abrupt ending will hook you enough to read the next chapter. Originally, it was all going to be one whole chapter on its own, a one-shot, but as I looked down at the page-count, I realized it would've been thirty-six ****____****whole ********pages. Dear Lord in Heaven, that's too much for you guys to go through. Besides, there's a scene that's too drastic of a change for you guys to take so suddenly.**

******Well, this takes place while Naruto is on his journey to become stronger. I never really focus on what he's doing or how strong he's getting. Just his thoughts on Hinata. Same with Hinata; I don't focus on the missions she goes on or what she happens to be doing at the time. Not many ********people will be mentioned in this, mostly just the two of them. But I think that's better somehow.**

******Review please! And any questions are welcome. Really, because this may or may not be confusing.**


	2. Sapphires and Pearls

******A.N.********: Alright, second chapter!**

******This is a page longer than the last one, but I hope you guys can bear with me. Just a little more reading than last chapter and we're done. Alrighty then.**

******Hinata was one of my favorite female characters because of how much she'd grown, from being diffident and shy to who she is now. And this couple was endearing to me because they were complete opposites, and they seemed perfect to me. I wanted to write something that showed that. And I hope I did a good job.**

******On a side note: Great response to this story. Yay =)**

******Enjoy.**

******Disclaimer********: I do not own ****____****Naruto********. I would freak out if I did, believe me.**

******Warning********: Mature content (there's a reason for the rating, ladies and gentlemen.)**

******Sapphires and Pearls**

They had finally found an inn that was willing to let them stay at a cheap price. The shower he took was filled with his sighs of relief. The mud and dirt and gunk built over washed away with pleasant-smelling soap, and his hair, which had grown hard and wiry over time, softened once more. The bath afterward relaxed every muscle in his body and he almost passed out in the hot water. When he pulled the robe on to sleep, he sunk into the futon gratefully, yawning deeply and then immediately falling asleep. He couldn't even get out a well-mannered and kind "goodnight" to his Master before his eyes fell shut and he began to uncharacteristically snore very loudly.

His mind that night was blank, dreamless, and he woke soundlessly, blinking his blue eyes wide and giving a long, satisfied yawn. When he stretched out his body fully, some bones popped and his muscles gave in nicely, a warmth spreading through him, and another sigh escaping him. He rolled the futon up and stood to walk to the window, cracking it to peek outside. It wasn't the prettiest of sights that greeted him, but not entirely an unpleasant one, either. The trees, though still stripped to their thin skeletons from winter, melting away with the kiss of early spring, had small buds of delicate green poking out from the spindly branches of the oaks towering above the window, some even scratching against the papery shingles of the rooftop with the breeze that stung his cheeks and nose and made him slide the window back shut. The sun had not come out yet, but another hour and it would break through the clouds that ominously promised rain but would perhaps not deliver. He stood from his seat by the window and padded over to the sliding doors, only sparing a glance at his Master who still slept deeply in the corner, drooling all over the pillow. The hallways were empty but he could hear the murmurs of early-morning conversations, mute and soft and fitting of the atmosphere. A baby giggled lightly somewhere down the hall and a man coughed somewhere to his right. It was comforting, to say the least, to be near other people after such a long time.

He made his way to the bathhouse, finding the shelf with his freshly washed clothing and pulling off the robe and tossing it in a hamper by the door. There were no rocks to add to the very natural feel of the inn, only smooth wooden walls and a plain ceiling. The water did not move, save for the machine that cleaned it, and so his reflection was still, albeit slightly foggy from the heat. He sunk down into the water and shivered to himself. As his muscles slowly loosened, his stomach gave a little jump, and he smiled down at the ripples bouncing off his chest.

He would be going home soon.

Two whole years of endless training and harsh living conditions, and he was finally coming home. What would be the first thing he did? Perhaps he'll stop and eat some ramen, and fill the aching hunger he felt, fulfill the need that gnawed at him every day since the first month of their departure, and finally cure his home sickness with the familiar taste of rich noodles and freshly cooked vegetables, clean water and a sprinkle of spice; feel the steam on his face, the promise of heavenly flavor, and the warm smile of the old man who cooked it. Or perhaps he'll go straight home, stretch out on his bed that he was sure he must've outgrown by now, dust off his window and picture frames and reorganize the simple decorations he'd collected over the years. Or perhaps even take a long walk through the village (even the bad side) and take in the scents he'd almost forgotten; freshly picked grain and rice, out of place flowers stuffed in cracked flowerpots atop ledges that were hardly big enough to hold them, the perfume of young mothers holding their giggly infants to them as they walked past with a tired yet peaceful smile, wet mud that darkened as old ladies cleaned their porches with hoses, laundry soap as clean sheets flapped in the wind on clotheslines... Or perhaps he'll pay a visit to his friends, catch up on everything and share a few laughs and stupid jokes, melting back into the village as they made him feel at home again. Or perhaps he'll simply feel out of place, unwanted and unworthy, as villagers happily walked on by, paying him no mind.

He moved his hands back and forth in the water, clicking his teeth together, before suddenly dunking his head in the water and then sitting back against the wall, taking a deep breath to compose himself, the pain that had stabbed at his chest, water slithering down his face from his hair. He knew what he might've done if that happened, him being ignored as he always was as a child. He might've pushed his way through the crowds, walked right on past the little old ramen shop on the corner, past the flowerpots and young mothers with their bouncy infants, past wheelbarrows of wheat and rice, past the clean-smelling sheets and old ladies cleaning their porches, past his friends' homes and his own wayward apartment, hidden precariously in a place no normal man could ever reach, and off to the bad side of town; past oil-rivers and dangerous pipes that messy, muddy and troublesome children played in, past glaring drunks and smirking creepy ladies that may have stroked his arms and offered a "good time", past his old hiding place and past beat-down shacks, and to the river where all the turtles sunbathed, and sat there for hours silently contemplating something he'd never share with anyone else.

_Except_, his mind whispered, to his surprise for the image that splayed behind his eyelids, white and pure and entirely lovely and innocent, ___for a girl with porcelain skin and white eyes and black hair. _His heart warmed unexpectedly at the kind smile he remembered clearly and the timid voice he didn't want to admit he missed.

_Yeah_, he finally thought. ___Except for her._

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The air no longer clouded before her mouth when she spoke, and the mornings were no longer cold and gray. The sun broke the clouds until they were hardly there anymore, save for the occasional shower or the simple workings of nature offering sweet little puffs of white in the blue, blue sky. Winter had turned to Spring, and she took it in gratefully. The birds sang their gentle song in the mornings and the world awoke with brand new hope and vigor. It was something she looked forward to every day, waking up with something new and sweet within her, around her. Yet the ache she felt in her chest would always tear anew when she realized that nothing, ___really_, had actually changed. Her father was still cold and unfeeling, her cousin still stern and brutally honest, her sister still unmoved by her little acts of kindness, and the boy she admired was still not home.

_Soon, _she'd think. ___Soon. _But soon was not soon enough. Her sadness grew exponentially, to the point where she sometimes felt as if winter really never had gone away, as if snow still fell outside and ice still grew along the windows and her skin would feel frozen and she would feel despair creep along her body. It was a very scary feeling, one she desperately broke as she hurried to her window, yanked milky curtains aside to look out at the sun-bright grass outside that glistened with the rain that had fallen last night, rain that had long since washed away the very last remnants of frost.

The tea made of cherries was red like blood, unsacred yet sweet enough it almost burned. It washed away her sadness for a moment, just enough that she could leave her house and walk back outside. And she felt a thrum of happiness, evanescent like life itself, because the wrath of winter had passed, and she could see it as the birds fluffed their feathers and dogs shook their bodies out, children began to laugh and play and the village began to come alive, and spring had broken the silence that had blanketed them all over night. She rubbed her forehead for a moment, smiling as a toddler ran past, stumbling over her tiny legs, and stepped away from the safety of her home, down the road and toward the center of the village, where most everything was warm and joyful.

_Soon_, she thought. ___He'll be back soon._

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The first thing he did when he arrived at the faded and large green gates at the entrance of his home was smooth a hand through his electric blond hair, straighten his new jacket, and fix his replaced headband, tap the metal of his forehead protector, and take a deep breath of the newly grown leafs swaying in the breeze. And then he ran, straight through the village, past watching villagers and surprised bystanders, and leaped, high into the air, run up a wooden pole into the sky, and land with a grace he was almost surprised at, to look out at how much his home had changed. Colors, bright and various and familiar, spanned the entirety of the village, mixed together and shining in the morning sunlight. Life went on, and that's what had happened here. Life. And he couldn't say that he was saddened by that. More pleased than anything, to see the progress that had taken place. A new head was carved into the face of the mountain, just beside the Fourth Hokage, his idol and father alike, and some buildings had been repainted. The same, but ultimately different. And he liked it.

He did not go home to stretch out on his bed, or take a long walk to see what else had changed, or immediately head off to eat ramen and talk to the old man with the kind smile, or wander to the bad side of town he remembered from his childhood with painful clarity, but he found his teammate, wondrously grown yet the same as he'd left her, and felt a burst of his old excitement shoot through him.

_And yet, _his mind whispered, ___it's not quite complete._

And it wasn't. He still found himself looking away, half-listening to a green-eyed girl he'd always had a crush on ramble on about how proud she was of him and whatnot, peer over the crowds for ___just _a glimpse of the face that had burned itself to the back of his eyelids and haunted him even now. For just a little reassurance that she was safe and sound.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

Two cobalt eyes blinked up at her, so much closer than she was accustomed to, wide and burning with curiosity, filled with so many secrets, so many questions, so many things that remained trapped there within the liquid-bright orbs of the boy who smelled like sunshine and ramen and fresh mud. She wanted to spill all those things out onto the ground before her, so that he could finally be free of them, but she was afraid of doing that.

Who would he be without them?

Of all the places she'd expected to see him, it certainly was not here, beneath and between thick pipes that spewed gas and toxicity into the air around them. The sky was not visible, too many pipes and brick and cement and smoke hiding it from view, but his hair was still that same bright golden blond she remembered and his eyes were still vibrant and sapphire blue, almost glowing as he peered up at her in bewilderment. The ground below him was gray and sad and covered with spilled oil, black as the nighttime, blacker than her hair, staining his fingertips which lay beside him limply, while one blackened hand held fast onto her hip. His head rested back against the brick wall behind him, cracked and with scatterings of web and dust and scratch marks. It was an ugly place. Not a place she would ever think to find him, but a place, she was sorry to admit, he did not seem totally out of place in.

How she had ended up here, she couldn't quite say. It happened to be that she had been drawn to this side of the village, strange as that was, and had been intrigued by a particular mess of factory pipes shooting out from one building to the next, and had slipped through a slight crack quickly, almost easily if not for her worry of staining her jacket with the dripping black liquid. And she'd slipped, almost fallen down into another pool of black, but a hand had caught her, and there she knelt beside him, the only clean and comforting thing around.

They were hidden, she knew. No one on this side would care to search for them, and no one on other side of the village would think to look here, the southern outskirts of town where forest melded with civilization and abandoned factories still polluted the air with thick and hideous-smelling gas. If she spent a couple of minutes with the boy so many still feared for reasons he had not meant or known himself until recently, reasons she herself was unreasonably unafraid of, she would not be scolded too much when she returned home.

He did not speak, only stared at her with open shock and disbelief. Nothing unkind or rude. Just surprised, understandably. Her face turned pink, she was sure, and she knelt there silently, unsure how to go about speaking to him. The conversations they'd had in the past had never been lengthy. More courtesy that he offered her because he thought of her as a close friend, and nothing more, it seemed. It was a long while of awkwardness, staring at one another, before she opened her mouth to speak. What tumbled out of her mouth made her squeak and cover it with two slender hands quickly: "I missed you."

He did not seem taken aback, or confused. A hint of a smile warmed his friendly features and calmed her pounding heart, but caused a strong fluttering in her stomach. "I...missed you, too, Hinata," he whispered hoarsely, looking down slowly and unintentionally freeing her from her nervous breakdown.

Her heart skipped a few beats and she looked away, up at the pipes and away from him. She had never faced him head on, and doing so now was almost frightening. Her pallid fingers trembled and body rocked away from him, and yet she wanted to be closer, her blush deepened and her eyes flicked around, looking anywhere but at him. But when his eyes finally settled back on her, her gaze locked on his instantly. It was out of some instinct she didn't know, to look him in the eye, and it kept her steady once again, like his hand still there on her hip. She smiled timidly, familiar, she supposed, to him, and felt his grip relax. "It's a little strange bumping into you here, Naruto-kun," she murmured softly, and another twitch pulled at the edge of his lips.

"I used to hide here as a kid," he said, looking around as if seeing it for the first time. "No one would ever find me."

There was a double-meaning to his words, one she understood immediately, and it broke her heart. His eyes darkened slightly and his hand fell from her hip, looking away from her in something akin to shame. No, no one would find him here in this clever hiding spot. But, then again, no one was ever looking for him. Never him. She watched him a moment, unsure how to go about comforting him. He was something else entirely, something she'd never encountered personally. He was an old-soul, she knew, and had been dealt with many hardships, most she herself would never know. But this one in particular, which plagued him as he sat here in his memories, she could understand. So when her hands, pallid and slender and fragile, reached out to cup his face, surprisingly soft and dark against her skin, he didn't flinch away from her. He did not fear her, did not hate her, did not turn away from her. She wasn't tied to any bad memories and there was never a time she had ever shunned him like all the rest of the villagers, like most of their friends. She was the one person he knew that had never hurt him.

That perhaps would never hurt him.

Had he not leaned up on his own, reflexively wanting to be closer to her kindness, their lips, his darkened by the sun and hers the color of a new pink rose, would not have met. And they would not have known the sweetness that would've bloomed between them, the wonderfully beautiful tranquility, and they would've gone the rest of their lives with a vague memory of some factory pipes and superficial small-talk.

But he had, and the kiss was faint and brief, and as innocent as he thought her to be. And, for a split second, she thought she heard someone laugh, the first sign of life in this horrible place.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

He was surprised to hear, from her feeble voice, that she had eaten ramen many times during his absence. And he, as unbelievable as it seemed, had not eaten a single noodle of it on his journey. When they slipped from beneath and between the pipes, him first at his insistence (she was too naive to realize that she could be snatched away at any given moment by a drunkard stumbling by) they headed out of the darker part of the village, past his apartment that divided good from bad, along the dirt road, past the fields of green and grain and rice, and the wheelbarrows towing pounds of it away, and chickens pecking at the ground for food and pigs snorting and rolling in mud, past flapping clean sheets and old ladies and giggling children, underneath cracked pots of misplaced flowers atop ledges that could hardly hold them, and to the little ramen shop on the corner of a busy road.

The old man seemed to know her, and smiled in welcome; she must've come by often. His smile widened and the edges of his squinted eyes wrinkled more at the sight of the boy beside her; he could honestly say that he missed that smile. As they sat down, she asked for the special, with a confidence he hadn't known she could have. He sighed in something similar to relief, and ordered his favorite. As they waited, listening to the sizzling meat and breathing in the smell of frying vegetables, he quietly evaluated the way she fidgeted with her fingertips on her lap. Her hair was long now, and gave off a tint of purple he hadn't noticed before. She was taller, too, maybe even grew a few inches over the time he'd been gone, her face slightly less round and her style somewhat changed. Her hoodie was different, like how he'd changed his jacket; it was purple and white, every bit as conservative as her old one.

But she was still the same demure girl as before, still gentle and modest and polite.

She sat with her back straight, thanked the old man when he set the plate before them, took the chopsticks and pressed her palms together and bowed her head before snapping them apart and poking through the noodles carefully; a well-mannered girl. It wasn't as if he was going to judge her either way. He'd already decided he liked her enough when he first saw her, way back in their days in the Academy, a petite black-haired girl with strange white eyes and pink cheeks and a sweet smile. She had seemed nice and never once glared at him like everyone else seemed to. And so he held no grudge against her. It was relieving to be able to look at her and not have a single negative memory of her.

The rich taste of the noodles on his tongue brought him back to the present, closing his eyes to savor it. They were slick and hot and burned his lips but he sighed either way, letting the heat pool within him. Boiled eggs, cooked pork, a sprinkle of cabbage, and the familiar taste of narutomaki, rolling around in his mouth as he chewed happily. This was the good part of his memories, the one thing he knew couldn't be infected by his curse. And now he had the one person that had never hurt him enjoying it as well. She delicately ate her food, seeming to cherish the golden noodles every bit as much as he did. And when a bit of the rice in her bowl stuck to her chin, he almost reached over, thoughtlessly, to wipe it off with his thumb, but caught himself just before he could, watching her clean it with her napkin and continue eating her ramen slowly.

He looked down at his bowl as a cruel realization passed through him: He could not act this way with Hinata Hyuga. She was the very embodiment of what he was not. She was shy, she was considerate, she was caring, she was serene, she was quiet, she was gentle, she was innocent... She was uniquely compassionate and empathetic. Too good for him. There weren't many things in life he could say he would never do, and hurt her was one of them. And he was certain that he would, in one way or another. Despite his very best efforts, he knew he would end up ruining her in some way.

When he thought of Hinata, he thought of white. Pure, untainted, and graceful. There was not a single part of her that was bad. So unlike him, where a demon was trapped inside of him, growling beneath the surface, there when he wanted it least. There was a dark side to him, whereas she was entirely ___good_, like he had always wanted to be.

No, he could never be with Hinata Hyuga, because she was angelic and ___beautiful_, down to the very last detail, and he...was not.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

She did not dare venture further from the entrance, hands clasped together at her middle and head bowed, listening to his footsteps as he walked around his tiny apartment. His home was settled in a place she might've passed every day of her life, and had never given a moment of thought, high up in a spot where no one but a shinobi could reach. Getting up there, for her, was no issue. For a normal person, it would be another story entirely. And so she wondered how he managed as a child.

The apartment was made up of a small kitchenette, with a tiny sink and a few cupboards and drawers, a small fridge in the corner beside a house plant that was unexpectedly vibrant, a table at the center with only two mismatched chairs and a bowl leftover from his breakfast. There was a door directly across that, when opened, revealed his bedroom, and another door on the right side of the kitchen that may have been the bathroom. It was strangely both fitting and yet inapt for such a lively, happy boy. The place seemed boring, plain, but as her eyes shifted over the walls and ceiling, she caught little decorations here and there that seemed so much like him, it nearly made up for it. A poster on the wall of a cartoonish frog smiling back at her; a sticker on the simple silver toaster the shape of a llama with a ball cap; a magnet of a taco on the fridge, holding up a surprisingly artistic sketching of the Fourth Hokage. There was a light jacket folded over one of the chairs, a basket of dirty clothes he might've been about to wash sitting beside the front door, filled with what looked like some sheets and pants and t-shirts and socks. It was what she should've expected to find in any ordinary boy's house, had he been living alone. But this was much more clean; not a piece of trash to be found anywhere on the ground. And, besides the single bowl, spoon, and cup left on the table, there were no dirty dishes.

He walked back out of his room, scratching the back of his head, blue eyes scanning the walls and then landing on the table, blinking wide and then hurrying to transfer them to the sink to wash. "Ha, sorry it's kind of a mess," he apologized, although there was no need, in her eyes. "I hadn't thought anyone would come over." She rocked back and forth from her heels to her toes, smiling to herself. She hadn't expected to be here, either. He dried his hands on a rag, glancing over at her. "Come in," he said kindly.

She looked away, hiding her blush, and shut the door behind her. What ___was _she doing here? After ramen, she thought he would've left, thanking her for comforting him and apologizing for worrying her, and then wishing her a goodnight and never speaking of it again, unless of course in a casual manner like he often did of everything. Instead, he had waited with her outside, watching people pass by in silence. For a moment, it had seemed they would stay like that forever, standing just inches apart, their pinkies mere centimeters from brushing against one another, her head bowed and his held high, she clouded with nervousness and he emitting confidence. As people moved around them, they remained still. Like rocks in the middle of a river, the water breaking around them while they remained unchanged. The crowds parted to keep going, and she wondered if that was how it was always like. If she had only stood still for one moment, she would've seen this earlier. It was the shortest moment of heartbreak, sorrow for her fellow humans once more for losing their senses so, before she felt his warm hand curl around her own, swallowing hers whole for how much bigger it was. She blushed the whole way to his home as he guided her from the ramen shop, and then feared they were going to the darker side of the village, and then he made a sharp turn toward a place she barely ever saw, and he lifted her up in his arms and leaped up into a hallway she never would've noticed. She'd caught his scent briefly before he set her down carefully, heading off toward a random door and unlocked it with a simple key, from which hung a key chain of a puppy, and opened it to flick on the lights and reveal a little apartment.

So, what ___was _she doing here? She didn't know. They had ended up here because he'd led her here. The reason lied in him, but she had no intention of asking him. Not now, anyway. She was far more content in seeing the place and being so near him, that she couldn't care less.

He pulled out one of the mismatched chairs for her, smiling warmly when she felt unsure, and only sat down across from her when she plopped down into the chair quickly. He'd taken off his jacket, and been left in a plain black t-shirt with a necklace that held a lovely blue crystal. He was more slender than she thought, and sturdier. His jacket made him seem bulky and shapeless. This was a very nice and very distracting change. He played with a napkin as she looked him over, keeping his eyes on his hands rather than on her. She decided, with an enormous amount of courage she hadn't thought she had, that she would broach the subject herself. "Naruto-kun...if you don't mind me asking..." she began, but his cobalt eyes flickered back to hers, cutting her off as a storm of butterflies attacked her stomach relentlessly.

His eyes melted her as he smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, Hinata. I just...haven't been really thinking. I don't know why I brought you here." It was the truth, she knew, because if Naruto was anything, it certainly wasn't a liar. "I... While I was on my trip, I kept thinking about you."

She felt her face burn bright, no doubt a deep scarlet staining her pale face. What did he mean by that? It couldn't mean what she thought.

"I don't know why. But for a while I couldn't sleep without picturing your face." He rested his chin in his hand, seeming troubled by this fact. "And there were times I even dreamt of you. The dreams didn't mean anything, I don't think, but they happened enough that I started wondering why. Why was it ___you _I thought of? Why not someone a little closer to me, like Sakura-chan or Kakashi-sensei?" He rubbed his forehead and smiled spitefully at himself, lashes brushing over his cheekbones, black against sun kissed skin, not blond like she had thought. "The mind, I heard, is a pretty mysterious thing. Even for me."

She reflected a moment. She'd always assumed he was smarter than he looked, much more than anyone gave him credit for. She'd always _known_ that. He shared in her own torture, the memory of him, knowing he was far away and knowing she couldn't speak to him about it (not that she would've either way). It was relieving, though, to know it wasn't just her. Relieving, but also eerie. "I've...been going through the same thing," she admitted. "I couldn't sleep, either. And I kept thinking about you, too." ___I always do, _she thought faintly. ___I never stop thinking about you and it hurts sometimes. _She smiled despite the way her heart twisted so suddenly. If there was one thing she was accustomed to, it was hiding her own feelings.

He looked away. It was silent for a few minutes before he suddenly stood, startling her. "I'll walk you home. It's getting late." He walked toward the door.

She stumbled out of her seat, quite ungracefully she must say, and hurried over to him. "I-it's okay!" she stammered. "I can get there on my own."

He shook his head. "I'll worry about you the whole time." And that caused her to pause, watching him unlock the door and open it, holding it for her to join him outside.

_He would worry_, her heart sang. ___About me! _She followed him out and let him lift her into his arms once more, enjoying his scent a little longer as he jumped down from the apartment. They melded into the nighttime crowds, swaying and heading home for the day. They walked beside one another toward her home, on another, much better part of the village. The sky was painted an endless dark blue, fine specks of lights sprinkled across it, the faint outlines of blackened clouds slowly drifting across the canvass that was the heavens. Street lights were on, lining the streets, and soon changed to the occasional lantern as they entered a more rural and wealthy area. The distances between each home was further and further apart, and, as they walked, he kept close to her, drawing near as a shiver passed through her, a chill in the air beginning to settle as the world began to cool.

She might've jumped out of her skin, or very nearly so, when his warm fingers interlaced with hers, and pulled her (so very gently) to a stop. She stared straight ahead for a long while, unsure what to do, pallid eyes opened wide and locked on a lantern some long distance away, frozen in her place. Her heart was pounding but it was light, her body electric. Her ink-black hair fluttered in the wind, some tickling her cheeks and nose and throat, caught in her lashes and lips as they parted in her confusion. She looked back at him, hesitant to see what was going on, but what she saw caused a spike of pain and alarm to stab through her back and chest.

He was crying.

They weren't emotional tears. They were unexpected, even to him. His eyes were trained on her own, filled with the same burning, the same ever-present sorrow and remorse, the same warmth, but liquid crystals gathered at his eyes, made them glisten in the starlight. They were the bluest of blues now, shining so very beautifully, so ethereal and heavenly, that she found herself speechless, breathless, and she could do nothing to comfort him. When the tears rolled down his whiskered cheeks, they left stains on his skin the color of silver, reflecting off the starlight, and she let out a breath she'd been holding since his hand had taken hers.

"I... I'm so sorry, Hinata..." he whispered, and her heart tore for him, bled for him, her bottom lip trembling. She understood him so completely that she closed her eyes and nodded, warm liquid spilling from her eyes and an ache tearing across her heart. "I didn't mean to...to..."

She shook her head.

Two silhouettes hugged in the starlight.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

_I didn't mean to fall in love with you_, he thought to himself, watching her disappear into her house.

The way back was long and lonely, his sandals scratching against loose gravel and dirt, melting back into the waning crowds, and to the misplaced apartment he lived in. His bed was too small, he knew, and his pajamas didn't fit so well. He couldn't afford any other, but his sleeping cap still fit perfectly. He burrowed in his blankets, counted his money in his mind, how much he'd need to save to buy a bigger bed and more clothes, and sighed as he realized he'd need to take on more small-time missions, just a few more to buy him what he needed.

He stared up at his ceiling, cracks here and there and some age-spots in one corner, where a leak had sprung once when he was eleven, making him panic.

Where had this feeling come from? This tugging and longing feeling in his heart, that only ceased when he looked at her, yet grew so much stronger when she was near, wanting her closer. When had it started? He closed his eyes. Somewhere along the way, as he'd grown and changed and trained, he had fallen in love with Hinata Hyuga.

And she wasn't even around to cause it.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

Tonight there were butterflies on her walls, starlight sneaking through her light curtains. She pulled her milky blankets up to her chin, ivory fingers curling around the fabric, inky hair spilled across her pillow, eyes tracing the ceiling.

She had always loved Naruto Uzumaki. But never, not once, had she thought he'd feel the same. And it was a scary feeling. She felt vulnerable. Helpless like never before.

How could it be that such an energetic, happy boy could love a girl like her?

The answer wasn't in the endless white of her room, or even the portrait still hung on her wall.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The first time he'd kissed Hinata Hyuga, it was in a dirty place, with pipes all around them and oil spilled beneath them, and it had been more out of fear and sadness and a need for solace than anything.

The second time, however, had been much more pleasant. Her lips were like rose petals, like her silken skin, and her eyes fluttered shut so slowly. The moment was not as brief, but not an eternity. Just a kiss, nothing more, placed so delicately upon her rosy lips, and it was out of affection and happiness, with just a tad bit of shyness mixed within. A kiss that fit her exactly, faint and unsure, but kind and careful. And it made his heart throb for a moment, before her fingers brushed his chin, feather-light and heartbreakingly sweet.

Her hand was small in his own and her fingers curled nicely against his. Her skin was porcelain against his darker peach, and smoother than he could imagine. She smelled of cherries and orchids, not of cheap perfume or booze. And it was nice to breathe her in, to hold her, to touch her, because...because...

_Because_, his mind whispered kindly, a reminder, ___you love her._

And it was nice to think he still could love something.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

It was slow. Very slow.

She'd spent the better part of her life admiring him from afar, slowly but surely falling in love with him. She'd been ready to take him in, all of his troubles and fears and insecurities and sadness, and give him all of herself in return, all her flaws and doubts and anxieties. She was willing to let herself be vulnerable to him just as long as he was the same for her. But that, she was beginning to realize, would take quite a long time.

His whole life, he had been hated by all the villagers, for something he hadn't even done. The hundreds of lives lost in that attack some sixteen years ago had marked him as the recipient of all the anger and hate and disdain and fear that the witnesses of that day had felt, following him from the day he was born, until even today. He hadn't yet succeeded in gaining the trust and respect and acknowledgment he'd been fighting for, and that, she knew, was surely disheartening for him.

She should've ___known _how much that would've hurt him, how much that would've scarred him and hardened him toward other people. Perhaps she'd forgotten because of the smile he wore so often, the laughter that rang so loudly when he was happy. But then there were his eyes, expressive and open and honest, and they certainly should've been her one hint that he indeed had been damaged by so much neglect and avoidance.

Naruto Uzumaki couldn't love like a normal person, despite how warm and friendly he seemed. He just couldn't trust someone so completely like other people, no matter how much it looked like he could. And she should've ___known_, because she was no better. Years of being brought down and all the venom that had been spewed at her and the hardships she herself had had to endure, and she could barely find it in her to build her confidence enough to do most things she'd always wanted to do. She understood him, although of course she never went through what he did, and she could never ___really _know the pain he'd endured day after day, but she understood that look in his eyes when he held her hand, or when she leaned up to brush something from his hair and he would flinch (just a little), and when he would suddenly look away when she glanced at him, a dark look in his cobalt eyes...

It was the fear of the unknown. And she felt it, too.

What awaited them, after all was said and done and they (___maybe_) end up falling in love? How much of themselves would they have to give? How much love could they possibly offer, after all the abuse and pain they'd gone through? And ___when _would the feeling of ___falling _(literally ___falling_) down a big black hole go away?

And as the days passed, as they greeted one another politely when they saw each other, and walked alongside each other through the village silently, and smiled kindly at the people who passed them by, while still so very aware of the other, she fell more and more, deeper and deeper, in love with Naruto Uzumaki. Despite how so very slowly the relationship progressed.

Because, sometimes, he'll reach over and take her hand. Sometimes, he'll lean his head against her shoulder lightly. Sometimes, he'll stroke his thumb across her knuckles gently. Sometimes, he'll brush his lips across her cheek faintly. Sometimes, he'll whisper her name so sweetly. And sometimes, only sometimes, he'll tell her that she's beautiful to him.

And that was all she ever needed. Even if they never went further, even if this was how they'd be for the rest of their lives, it was more than enough for her.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The third time he kissed Hinata Hyuga was the day of her birthday. He hadn't known it was a special day, only that she seemed a little more pent up than usual. Not excited, not exactly. Just a little different. It was spoken very casually, almost as if it didn't matter, but it still made him cough up his water and look at her in surprise. She hadn't gotten anything worth mentioning, he could tell from the way her gaze lowered minutely when he asked and her voice softened a little more than it should have. Not anything worthless, just nothing worth sharing.

And so he leaned over and kissed her, knowing he couldn't afford to buy her anything and knowing how much he'll regret that fact later on that day. It was out of apology and a faint hint of regret, but melted into something a little more. Like relief and genuine fondness. His head had tilted to the side, and her inky bangs overlapped his messy yellow hair, their eyes both shut and fingers inches from touching. Their lips moved softly, languidly, whispering against one another, until he pulled away, not quite able to stand the fluttering sweetness in his stomach any longer.

A sigh escaped her mouth, the taste of the scent brushing his tongue, swiping over his lower lip as he looked away nervously, and, out of an impulse, his mouth latched back onto hers immediately, swallowing the tiny, surprised squeak that left her. Her tongue was soft, just like her skin and lips and hair and the emotion in her eyes whenever she looked at him, timid and gentle against his own. And perhaps he'd made a mistake by doing this, starting a relationship with such a nice and caring girl, and kissing her like this, in such a not-so-innocent manner, but he couldn't pull away again. He didn't ___want _to anymore. If this was the closest he could get to her without hurting her the way a demon growled within him, then he would take it.

Her slender fingers braided into his golden hair, and he melted into the kiss once more. Languid, slow, gentle. A rhythm he was beginning to think would be common between the two of them, a routine, familiar. And he was fine with that. If there was a way to be tender with this girl while getting as close as possible without hurting her, then he would take it without a second thought.

But perhaps he should think more often.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

Ever so slowly, the years had crawled by (an explosion of catastrophes colliding as time went on) progressive as the two of them. And it was a matter of time before they were faced with a decision neither of them could deny at this point. After tiny baby-steps along the course of their relationship, they had finally reached that one inevitable part they had to overcome. It came with anxious smiles and dark blushes, but it happened anyway, despite their childish trepidation at the implications.

No marriage. Not now. The sting of the deaths of their comrades and friends and family alike still gnawed at them in the back of their minds, at the edges of their hearts. But this, they knew, could no longer wait. Not anymore. The kisses went from simple and quick, then extended and turned into a heat they couldn't deny. The proximity between them closed little by little until they pulled away suddenly with pounding and aching hearts, filled with panic and alarm.

And so slow, slow as their gradually settling lives, his kisses traveled from lips to chin to jaw to throat, and her fingers went from tickling the nape of his neck to down his shoulders to down his back. It didn't happen immediately; nothing ever did between the two of them. It just...happened.

His fingers combed through her long hair, the color of a midnight sky, some strands shining purple, others blue, and even a few glinting silver in the moonlight spilling into the room through a window behind him. He wondered for a moment if he should shut it, enclose them in darkness to save them from the embarrassment of showing their fully naked bodies, to preserve her modesty for ___just _a little longer. But a second away from her would be too much now. As he touched the ends to his lips lightly, she mumbled, "I'll get a haircut soon." He didn't respond, letting the silken tresses fall from his fingers slowly, the tips sliding down the length of his arm. It's been ___years _since he last saw her with short hair, before she'd taken over his thoughts and dreams and before he'd left on his journey that seemed so long ago. He wouldn't mind seeing her like that again, thought she looked good either way. But his hands returned to her obsidian tresses anyway, more out of a habit he'd picked up some time ago than anything.

Her skin was porcelain, smoother than silk and flawless as a diamond. His hands contrasted her color sharply, cupping her fragile face in his hands, a few raven strands clinging and wrapped around his digits. Her eyes were wide and the color of pearls, blinking at him when his face neared hers and averting to stare at the wall nervously; still as innocent as ever. The blush that painted her cheeks sweetly was a faint pink, like a rose. Like her lips that parted very slightly as he inched ever closer. When their lips met, there wasn't that fire that everyone always described. Just a wonderful tickle in their stomachs, a feeling of safety and the sense of belonging. It almost felt (dare he say) like it was meant to be.

Carefully, she reached up to catch his face in her hands, trace what she memorized to be his whiskers, forever streaked upon his skin. Many times she'd touched him; his hands, his ears, his nose, over his eyelids, his eyebrows, his lips, his chin, his jaw, his neck... But never beyond that. On the rare occasion that he should take off his trademark jacket and simply wear a t-shirt, she would lightly trace his arms, curiosity filling her to the brim, wanting to ___feel _how smooth his skin really was, and then pulling away and stuttering an apology. And he would always smile at her, perhaps finding her reaction endearing, and brush a chaste kiss across her forehead. Chaste, like their slowly progressing relationship. Like their slowly blooming love. Now, though, as he pulled away from their lip-lock, a soft noise following that deepened her blush, and offered her a reassuring smile (although he himself seemed unsure about it) and found the silver zipper of his jacket and pulled it down, a hundred metal teeth opening and showing its black mouth to her, and he slipped it off and tossed it toward a chair in the corner of the room, she didn't know what to do with herself.

His brow furrowed as he saw her timidly look down, and take the zipper of her own jacket in her fingers and pull it down. The dark shirt beneath cut off above her naval, black mesh armor beneath that and tucked into her navy blue pants. The shirt's neckline plunged between her ample breasts, which he had avoided paying attention to for a long time, the milkiness of her skin marred by her mesh armor that extended up to her collarbone. She let the jacket, lavender and white, fall to the ground silently. A moment passed, not entirely uncomfortable, where they sat across from one another, eyes locked and the whole world still.

"Hinata..." he murmured, a wave of terror passing through him. What if he hurt her? What if he lost control? What if... What if... But her hand caught his, pulling it up to her lips to kiss his knuckle faintly. A blush burned his cheeks at the act of affection, fingers twitching in her grasp. "I... What if I..."

"I trust you."

The words set him free.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

"You're beautiful, Hinata," he breathed.

Her ivory skin glowed in the moonlight, stretching its reach out further to illuminate them both in their bed with red sheets. Red like blood, red like black cherry tea. Her ebony locks, which glinted with different hues of blue and purple, spilled around her, like ink with thin twisting tendrils. She lied with nothing on but a scarlet blush on her face, pearly eyes looking away as she pressed her lips together doubtfully. She truly was like porcelain, smooth and perfect, without a single flaw on her voluptuous body. Her throat was slender, graceful, and led down to the slopes of her collarbones, the hollows of which were pools of shadows, and disappeared out to her slight shoulders. Then her arms, thin yet toned, sinewy, out toward her little hands that gripped the sheets so tightly. Her breasts were full and lovely, with rosy pink blooms in the middle of each, hardening in the cool temperature. Her waist was thin, her smooth stomach soft, with a small belly button that led him down to further shapes, wide hips and long legs and then tiny feet with pink little toes. And there, between her tightly shut shapely legs, was a patch of black curls that made his body warm, much to his dismay.

He wasn't past his primitive side.

But if he focused on her, how absolutely breathtaking she was, and how much he wanted to completely worship her, he could almost forget it. He wanted to caress her endlessly, but she would never allow that. She cared too much for him to let him do that. He leaned back and swallowed his emotions, closing his eyes and pulling off his shirt, letting her look at him as much as he had her.

There was a beauty to men, different than that of a woman. She could fully understand that as she sat up slowly to look at him clearly in the bleaching light of the full moon. His body was lean, delicately muscular. His shoulders were broad, stomach rippling with fine, faint muscles that she wanted to touch, to see if they were as fragile as they looked. She blinked and then reached out, fingers poking the button of his pants, gaining his attention. He looked down and took a deep breath, nodding at the question in her kind eyes. She popped the button, carefully lowering the zipper. He was the one to pull off the rest of his clothing, but she was the first one to actually ___touch _the other. Her hand, placed flat over his heart, pounding beneath his ribcage. The contrast between their skin was hypnotic to her, like they were a split second from mixing together, like powdered sugar in water. Her milky hand smoothed across his surprisingly soft skin, sun kissed, dark against her own. He was her opposite, she supposed. Loud and confident, open and shameless, strong and determined. With wild blond hair, spiky and bright like the sun, brilliant blue eyes that were brimming with secrets and questions and stories and curses, skin that spoke of his childhood, his lifestyle, his choices, and a smile that was cheerful and friendly, but now soft and tender as he gazed at her.

His hands, calloused and big, reached out and held her hips, leaning down to kiss her forehead, parting her bangs to reach the pallid skin. His scent clouded her senses, breathing him in and pressing her nose under his chin. Carefully, his lips whispered across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, over her eyelids, across her pink cheeks, and finally brushing her lips. They melted into the kiss, his hands drifting across her back, arms wrapping around her, pulling her in closer. She gasped as her breasts were crushed against his warm, solid chest. His arms only corded around her, wanting her closer. ___Soft, _he thought. ___She's so soft. _Her hands held onto his shoulders, focusing on the kiss, opening her mouth for his tongue, languid and gentle.

When she lied back down, she felt her heart skip several beats, watching him prop himself over her with one hand reaching one down to her legs. She didn't dare look past the v-shaped shadows inches below his stomach, afraid of what she'd see. There was a fine trail that she could only see when lit up by the moon, of blond hair pointing down to where she didn't want to look. His hands guided her legs, her feet flat against the bed and legs parting for him. He fit between them, brows furrowed and face blushing deeply. "Hinata," he began, sitting there between her legs, hands placed on either side of her waist, finally meeting her gaze; a multitude of emotions reached out to her, heavily trying to convey something, something that bothered him more than he could say. "This is our first time. It's going to hurt, and I'm not sure if I can be gentle for you." He bristled, unsettled by that. "I don't want to hurt you..."

Since she was six years old, she'd been watching him from afar, silently pushing him to do his best and wishing that he would reach his goal and be happy. And if he never looked at her, she would be okay with that, as long as she could see him smile and laugh, she would be content. More than she could've ever hoped for happened to her. All these years together were more than enough for her to say that she would never have another sad moment in her life, nothing she couldn't live through at least. And if this was all she would ever get, she was fine with that. But she wouldn't mind, if just one night, she could get all of him, body ___and _soul...and possibly his heart. So when he hesitated, hands fluttering over her form uncertainly, she decided she wouldn't mind a little pain, just to be with him. Hell, she'd made it this far.

"It's alright, Naruto-kun," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder gently. "I just want to be with you."

She'd never been a liar. And she was never weak. He knew that. And his worry, he supposed, would most likely offend her in some way. He nodded silently, leaning down to brush a kiss over her lips, and then trailing down her jaw and throat, along her alabaster skin, his hands smoothing across the expanse of her stomach, up toward her breasts that easily filled his hands. She trembled beneath him, hands curling into the sheets. Down his hot mouth went, and then he kissed one rosy nipple and she jerked beneath him, giving a distressed whimper. His other hand reached out to stroke her arm, from her shoulder to her elbow and to her wrist, letting her grip his hand in one of hers. And when his tongue peeked out to trace the hardening coral tip, she gasped and arched very slightly. He was careful, slowly growing confident, tasting her skin lightly, kneading and kissing and caressing. When he felt her breasts were given the same treatment, carefully feeling the weight of one in his free hand, he trailed down lower. His hand went first, down smooth skin and clenching muscles, tracing her belly button with his index finger playfully, down the curve of her hip and stopping just shy of the small patch of ebony curls waiting there between her legs.

Her hands both gripped his hand now, squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation. His fingertips, hesitant and trembling, barely brushed the curls, and then shyly pressed against her, soft and hot, and she gave another whimper, unsure how to feel, but uneasy all the same. But he didn't hurt her, just felt about her, before his warm breath brushed her sensitive skin. She felt truly vulnerable then, open and helpless. And then his breath touched her there, she squirmed, and a tiny squeak escaped her when he placed a most tender kiss upon her mound. His tongue dragged along her, almost lazily, and she jumped, gasping. The more he did it, the less she could take it. Tingles were spreading through her from there, growing with every faint lap of his tongue, and when his fingers pressed against her again, the feeling grew further.

She was becoming wet under his fingers, and he searched along her slit, pink and ___not _white like the rest of her, for her opening. When he found it, though, it quivered under his fingertips, every bit as ___alive _as the rest of her. He pressed one finger against it, surprised with how easily it sunk in, and even more so with how tight it was. He hadn't expected it to feel that way. She stiffened beneath him, and only relaxed when he peppered kisses along her hips and stomach, very gently pushing his finger in. It was a good idea, then, to prepare her like this. He didn't want to imagine how much it would've hurt if he hadn't. She was incredibly smooth inside, like fine silk, wet and soft. It made sense it would feel as beautiful as she was, and he interlaced his fingers of his free hand with one of hers, another little sign of comfort. He pumped the finger gently in and out, nice and slow. In and out, another kiss on her hipbone, in and out, his thumb stroking her knuckles, in and out, his lips brushing across her stomach, in and out... Until she was wet enough for him to add another finger, digits beginning to shine in the moonlight. Her squeaks grew lighter and lighter, until they were just tiny gasps every now and then, bashful as she was. His tongue caught the clear juices drenching his fingers, and she tasted sweet, much like honey, and the moan that escaped her made him sigh happily.

He could at least cause her pleasure.

Her hips began to rock against his hand, her noises growing louder. His tongue traced and lapped and tasted and twisted over her, his fingers going and going until he saw the muscles of her stomach tighten, her legs stiffen, toes curl, head tilt back until all he saw was her graceful neck straining, and a cry of his name echo through the room. He pulled away immediately, scared he might've unintentionally hurt her. Had he done something wrong? It had seemed alright to him. But perhaps he'd been reading her wrong.

He was known to do that often.

After a few moments, her trying to catch her breath, and him looking down at his glistening fingers, he finally dared to speak. "H...Hinata...?" Uncertainty laced his words. Her noises had made his body excited, thrumming with anticipation, but she was more important than his needs.

She covered her face. "I-I'm sorry, Naruto-kun," she mumbled, sounding mortified. "That was...too fast." Her legs pressed against his sides for a second, as if she'd been trying to close her legs again and had forgotten he was there.

His blond brows pulled together in confusion. "Fast?" She peeked at him from between her slender fingers. Realization dawned on him, and he understood then that, ___no_, he hadn't hurt her. The opposite had happened. ___Oh_, he thought blissfully, hiding a pleased smile against her knee. ___Oh. _"I think...you're ready now." She nodded, lowering her hands and then holding them out for him, as if pleading for a hug. He thought for a moment. This would certainly be a drastic change from just two fingers. Perhaps he should've used more to prepare her better, but her hands reached out for him and a welcoming smile curled her lips, eyes warm and serene. He placed a hand under her arm, just beside her ribs, which were faint as she breathed, and settled himself between her legs better, pulling the blankets up his back, and then reaching between them to grasp himself. He saw her eyes flicker from him to his erection, and then scarlet stained her cheeks and she looked away.

He almost smiled at her.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he lowered himself down, pressing the tip against her opening, still dripping from the aftermath. Instinctively, he kissed her, wanting to draw her attention away. And as she relaxed into him, he pushed himself in, just a fraction or two, and felt her wince beneath him. Another few seconds of their whispering lips speaking reassurances to one another, he for her pain and she for his fear, and he sunk a little deeper. She pulsed around him, silken muscles clenching him too tightly. Her legs brushed his sides again, arms tightening around his neck, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss, just to distract herself a little longer, and he lifted her, wrapping his arms around her and filling her completely.

It ___hurt_, but he was warm and held still for her. His stomach and chest pressed flush against her, settled inside of her, together at last, kissing her so tenderly, as if she'd break, holding her close, hearts pounding in unison. She didn't remember a time they were ever this close, his breath fluttering her lashes and his warm skin burning right into hers. Tiny steps, that's all this ever was. Slow and sweet and pure. This was a big step, the biggest they'd ever taken. Her eyes traced his face, noting the way his eyes shined bright like sapphires and how he trembled above her. It was ___new _and she didn't hate it. And when his lips smoothed from her ear to her collarbone, she gave a sigh, deciding that it wasn't a bad feeling.

It was almost lovely.

He shifted and propped himself up on his elbows, making the very first move. A shot of heat ran through his body, down his spine, his gaze moving along her porcelain body, flawless and perfect like a goddess, sculpted out of marble. But she was ___soft _and ___warm_, so very ___human_, and the way she made him feel, not just the pleasure of being inside of her, but the feeling of safety, security, a sense of being understood, made him whisper sweetly to her, encouragements and reassurances. The way she responded, placing feather-light kisses along his nose and cheeks, and the way she writhed beneath him, calmed him down. He didn't want to hurt her. He wouldn't let himself.

A pool of tingly warmth pooled in her stomach, clinging to his back as he, very gently, thrusted within her, the sheets sighing around them. Her eyes fell shut, pressing her cheek against the side of his neck, electric blond hair tangling with her inky bangs. Tendrils of raven strands stuck to her back, his arms, with their sweat, dripping off the ends of his hair. The heat grew and grew, like a balloon, she supposed, or tightened like a string being pulled at two ends, until a sound escaped her lips; not quite in frustration or a soft plea, but something quite similar. He heard it, attuned to her after the all times he payed close attention to her, after all the years he spent listening closely for any subtle signs of distress or sadness. He let out a huff of breath, hot on her skin, and quickened his pace for her.

His movements became slick, easier, and he felt her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, his even rhythm breaking for a second. She was scorching, dripping, fluttering around him, her noises, which had been faint and breathless, became louder, little whines and moans. He let his hand smooth down along her side, down the curve of her waist and toward her hip, taking grip and pulling her up to meet his rocking hips, and both their voices hitched, falling into their own pattern, almost quick, not quite slow, broken and inexperienced, but sweet and fulfilling. His mouth drifted down to her breasts, placing kisses along the full swell of it, and wrapping his lips around one pert rosy tip, trembling at the whimper he received.

He was pulsing within her, and she was quivering around him, a sharp burning rising and falling as they moved and writhed and touched, her delicate hands smoothing across the expanse of his chest, down toward his stomach where his muscles clenched with every thrust, shuddering beneath her hands. His mouth skipped from her chest to her own, falling into a heated kiss, body stretching along her own, hands smoothing along her back, pressing her closer to him. "N... Na...ru..." she tried to say, that single string pulled taut, her nails scraping lightly along his shoulder blades, her head thrown back, the burning scalding her, overflowing from her center and out towards the rest of her.

He met her gaze, which shut immediately as her mouth opened up, revealing the ivory color of her teeth, and then the pink of tongue, a thin strand of ink painted over her rosy cheeks. Her eyes flashed for a brief moment, glistening silver, pools of pearls and blooming lilies, and her cry resounded through the room. His name.

He tumbled down instantly, thrusting in as deep as he could before quickly pulling out, spilling across the sheets, gripping her legs to keep them apart. He let himself fall beside her, wrapping an arm around her to shift her away from their liquids drenching one spot on the bed, and throwing the covers over themselves. Her eyes were cloudy, hazy, strangely glowing in the moonlight, mouth opening and closing when he rested his forehead against hers and gently asked, "Are you okay?" Her hands settled on his chest as his arms found a comfortable place around her slender body. Silken skin brushing against the scars on his stomach, her legs curling in, arms coiling around him and pressing against his shoulder blades lightly.

"I'm... I'm fine," she breathed, closing her eyes when he kissed her forehead in relief. The blue of his eyes were bright, brilliant, and shiny and amorous, smiling at her patiently. Her body thrummed with exhaustion and relaxation, completely at peace there in his embrace. As he closed his eyes to sleep, already feeling his dreams drag him down, he heard her mumble, "You're beautiful, Naruto-kun..."

His eyes moved over her face, relaxed into a deep sleep, cobalt eyes pensive, a hint of sadness and longing in them, wistful as he rested his forehead back on hers, lowering his gaze as he did, faintly noting the shadows his arms and blankets around them that engulfed her pallid skin.

_I love you_, he thought, but didn't dare say the words aloud. Fear and optimism filling his heart like golden lemonade, glowing in the sunlight of his childhood, warmed from sitting out so long on the porch of a kindly old lady that poured him a glass, his stubby, dirty fingers grasping the cup in both hands and drinking it gratefully. Nothing had seemed so wonderful back then, and he had never been so happy. It was a distant memory now, but etched into the back of his mind forever.

~~…~~0~~o*o~~0~~…~~

The lotus floated within the crystalline water, the color of milk, the color of her skin. The petals were soft, and, at the very beginning of each, where shadows pooled at the center, they were the faintest of pink. He didn't reach out for it, just stood there at the edge, watching it rock with the water delicately. The sun burned bright above, the sky cloudless; not a rain promised for months. The grass swayed in the breeze, tickled his ankles and toes, a vivid green with small wildflowers embedded within, masterfully scattered around him.

When her fingers interlaced with his, he let himself relax, smiling down at her. The sundress she wore was yellow, like a sunflower, and billowed around her legs, her raven hair dancing about her chin, cut short like when they were kids. His shirt fluttered against his chest, the ends of his jeans rolled up mid-calf. A necklace hung around his neck, one she'd made herself out of a few seashells she'd found on one of her missions. He poked it, at the rope that tapered off where it was knotted at the nape of his neck, a hint of a grin on his face.

She rested her head against his arm, wiggling her little toes in the grass and watching koi swim in circles in the clear water. The bad side of the village led to a lovely lake where turtles played and sunbathed. The oils did not reach this place, and neither did the despair. The village had been rebuilt, but the feeling that came with this side didn't go away. His hiding spot was gone, and his house was less discrete and unnoticeable, much to his dismay. She smiled to herself and kissed his shoulder.

"Hinata..." he murmured, watching one turtle stretch its back leg out. The edges of his lips curled up as he felt her nuzzle her tiny nose against his arm.

"Yes?" she replied, tilting her head up toward his. Her eyes had a hint of primrose in the golden cast of the sun, faint as the lavender color he found there. They were as wide and innocent and kind as ever. And he felt something flutter in his chest, reaching a hand up to cup her lovely face and lightly kiss her cheek.

"I love you," he said. It let his nightmares run free, the unknown open beneath him, but it lifted a weight off his shoulders all the same.

Her heart might've throbbed, her whole world crashing down around her, but a bright smile lit up her face anyway. "I love you, too, Naruto-kun."

Slowly, ___slowly_, he pulled her in for a hug, cradling her against him carefully. Gentle as ever, sweet as their blossoming love, and beautiful like life.

~~...~~...~~

******A.N.********: You like? Took me **_****__**months **_******to complete, and a whole day to edit (forgive me for any errors, I'm sleepy). But here it is.**

******Thanks for reading and please review!**

******Bye!**


	3. You're the Whole World

******A.N.********: It was supposed to be only two chapters. But I was inspired, so, here's a third. And the very last one.**

******For some reason, I can't write stories like this for any other couple. Which is both awesome and sad. Awesome, because they're my favorite couple of all time. Sad, because it's ****____****really ********hard to write stories like these. Which is why I hardly do it. Once in a while, I'll write a story about them for you guys, but this particular story is done now, with this chapter. It doesn't end with them being old and living happily ever after, but it does end on a particularly good note and they stay together. Good? Good.**

******Unlike the last two chapters, it doesn't span through days and weeks and months of their lives. This actually takes place through two days—through the night and to the next day—and focuses on their lives together, just a brief glimpse, as a couple. It is emotional and filled with the obstacles of their insecurities, and their progress getting past them. It has some memories between each section and it does mention that war (Fourth Shinobi World War) and their hopes for the future.**

******So, enjoy.**

******Warning********: Mature content. Again.**

******Disclaimer********: I do not own ****____****Naruto********.**

**You're the Whole World**

It was quite a sight.

The backdrop was a midnight blue, solid, like a starless nighttime sky in the middle of autumn, the type he used to gaze at from a cracked window, waiting for ___something _to happen, something different, something ___good—_when all the bad things had built up too much for him to carry all by himself—and a streak of opaque white sliced through it, from one corner to the other, thin and mostly unnoticeable. And then it was a series of swirls and twists of lighter blues and foggy grays and inky blacks, overlapping one another, seeming to move there on that simple canvass, like an ocean, swaying and spinning lethargically, lazily, and yet...not. A breath escaped him, letting his blue, blue eyes roam the expanse of it, reaching out one shaky hand to touch it, and hesitating before he could. He felt he would taint it somehow, his skin stark against the colors and their frozen dance. He had done enough damage in his life time, enough making trouble and snickering behind his hands, enough tearing through peace and silence; he didn't want to ruin ___this _as well—___this _being so magnificent it almost ate at his heart, wounded beyond repair...

He let his hand fall back to his side silently.

"Hinata..." he murmured, blond brows pulling together pensively, wondering. The sunlight suddenly broke through the dark room, particles of dust swirling frantically around him, as if every bit as alarmed as he was for a split second, casting shadows across his face and the portrait hanging before him. He squinted, blinking through the light, his blue eyes glowing sapphire and lashes painting fine lines within them. He watched the dust for a moment, something he often did as a child when he had nothing better to do but wallow in his melancholy, imagining that they were dancing for him, ___just _for him, and then moved his gaze back to the portrait, pupils dilating even in the light, fragile black spinning and widening, consuming some of the cobalt of his irises.

She straightened the heavy curtains carefully, glancing back at him after she finished. He had grown so much taller now, shoulders broader, voice deeper. She liked the change, because he had to lean down to kiss her and could reach the places she couldn't. He wore no shirt today, just black pants that seemed to blend into his skin for how tight they were, feet bare and completely comfortable in their home. His blond hair was a wild mess atop his head, and the golden strands of the sun dipped within the line of his spine and curled around his shoulder blades delicately. She smiled to herself, walking forward to place a kiss at the nape of his neck, lightly nuzzling her cheek against his skin, hot whereas hers was cool at that moment.

He smiled to himself softly.

"When did you paint this?" he asked, turning his head toward her slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the streaks of blue and black. He had spent his childhood being a brat, pulling pranks and laughing loudly, drawing attention to himself like a magnet, even if for negative reasons. So what if he was a broken magnet, so what if he was different? He'd try his damnedest to be normal, to be accepted like every other person he knew. But always, no matter how much he tried to blend in, and then tried ___not _to blend in, he could never quite...fit. He was like a mismatched puzzle piece, with no place to belong, no one to accept him. He may have laughed louder than everyone else, may have smiled a bit more than others, and then he may have broken a few bones, bruised a few limbs, felt a little pain, but all he had wanted, all he had wished for, was to be ___seen_, acknowledged, heard, ___liked_. Just once, for a moment or two, he wanted to make sense in the world, to have a place in society, to walk through town without being glared at, without being judged, to be able to smile and not be stared at for too long because they're afraid—___so damn afraid—_that he'll snap and let loose some great power he hadn't even known about until years later, to be able to breathe without being so violently despised. He had gone through his childhood doodling on paper, unknowingly becoming better, sighing because no matter how high he went, he would never reach his goals. Uphill was a great mountain. Downhill was a steep cliff. He didn't want to admit which way was easier, climb up or fall down. Maybe he didn't care how much his nails bled from clawing his way up, maybe it didn't matter to him how much he'd lose, just as long as he made it, just as long as he didn't fall—because then...then he'd lost and _they_ had won. He didn't want to look back, because, ___yes_, giving up would be so _much_ easier, falling down would be so much _simpler_, but he'd rather die than lose everything he had worked for.

And all that time, ___this _was inside of her. This masterpiece had always been at the tips of her delicate, capable fingers.

Hinata Hyuga had always been the kind one, lovely in a way he had briefly noted as he balanced a pencil on his nose, glancing over at her as two boys bickered beside her, tracing the small curve of her nose, her fragile jaw and gentle pallid eyes, her inky hair and her faint smile, before looking away to the window, a lawn of bright grass that shined in the sunlight he wanted to drown in. He never would've guessed that if a paintbrush was placed within her slender hands, she could've made ___this_. He had been a mutt, and she was a lady, refined, destined for wonderful things. While he had cried himself to sleep for ___years_, wondering why he had no parents and why nobody loved him, she had had the potential to move the world. But this painting, so beautiful it broke him inside, was meant entirely for him.

She had created it for him.

And that was the painful part, because ___no one _had ever done anything for him. No one had ever cared enough. He was never a part of someone's thoughts, only an afterthought perhaps. Maybe the afterthought ___of _the afterthought. He was the lowest of the low, the dirtiest scum in all reality, the child that held the monster that had killed so many innocent people—and, really, no one ever made that distinction; Naruto Uzumaki was every bit as much the nine-tailed demon as the nine-tailed demon was him; there ___was _no separation in their eyes, all those people that had ever hurt him—and so he was the dirt beneath their feet, the trash they wished to dispose of. Lower than the ants because even ___they _meant something. More worthless than the dead leafs fluttering off the trees when spring was vibrant and thick in the air. (And sometimes he'd like to think, spitefully, that they were wrong, that that dead leaf would join the earth and one day, millions of years later, it'd become coal, and then a diamond. Then he'd be worth ___something_.) But this painting was made for ___him_, so beautiful, poetic, a thousand words unspoken in every stroke of a brush. She could've sold it for so much and yet she kept it, for him, and he felt like crying. Because she'd made it for ___him, _and ___only _for him, and no one else in the world could have it.

He let out a shaky breath.

He felt, perhaps, he really did mean something. At least, to her he did.

"While you were training," she replied in her melodious voice. It soothed a place within him he couldn't quite comprehend.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words could not form. He didn't know what to say, he didn't know how to express his awe, how to show her how much he appreciated all of it. He grit his teeth in frustration, curling his hands into fists. His whole life wishing for someone to ___see _him, and she had been standing there all along, watching him, silent, caring, supportive. He wanted to cry, to sing, to laugh, to dance, to yell, to scream, to break... His anger at himself was burning him, because he couldn't believe how blind he'd been. Why hadn't he just looked over and looked at her the way he had always wanted to be looked at? See her the way he had wanted to be seen? Hear her the way he had wanted to be heard? He didn't want to know it was too late now, that the damage was done and this was her way of saying that. She was so sweet, so kind, so caring, he wanted to fall to his knees, so unworthy of her.

He wanted to kiss her.

He didn't deserve her. She could move on. She was so lovely, in a way he was sure could break and mold the world all over again, in the ___best _possible ways, that could change lives and save people. She could have all she wanted in life because she was ___good_, and all things that were warm and lovely were right there in her eyes. And somebody like him, as troubled and unstable and dangerous as he was, could never be enough for her.

But he wanted to hold her.

How could it be that those hands of hers had created such a beautiful thing? How could she have transferred so much of herself onto a canvass and still remain whole, intact, beside him? Her eyes shone lavender, a lilac, peering up at him from his shoulder, kind and warm and gentle.

He turned and caught her small face, swallowing her surprised, "Naruto-kun..." The kiss was warm, too, like her, like her heart, like her soul... It always filled him with sweetness, with so many bright feelings. Like a crystal caught in sunlight, shooting rainbows everywhere, but it was all still stuck within the facets, so many of them cut into him because he had been hurt, too, just like she had. Which one of them shined more brightly? Which one of them had more cut into them? He didn't care to figure it out. Her lips felt like rose petals beneath his own and she tasted of honey and silver and cherries and smelled of lilies and orchids and was fresh like water.

"Thanks, Hinata," he mumbled against her lips. Her eyes were half shut, pearly in the sunshine, lashes stark black and glistening with tears. She wasn't crying from sadness, he knew that by now. Their sorrows were slowly drying away the longer they were around one another. He never wanted to leave her if all she would ever offer him was happiness. And nothing caused more bliss within him than being so near her, seeing that blush stain her porcelain cheeks every time he looked at her, to feel those wonderful feelings and know they weren't going away any time soon. He kissed her again, tilting her head back and letting his eyes fall shut, shining blue and bright. He wanted to cry, too, because it stung him to be this happy, it really did. What did he do to deserve her? What did he do to make her love him? It was the greatest thing and the worst thing. He had her, but he didn't have the right to.

She was so beautiful. She was so serene. She was so ___different _from him. But she loved him and she didn't let him forget that. And it was the most wonderful thing, and yet it wasn't. Because his heart, so broken and torn from so much sadness and hatred, was being slowly pieced back together and it ___hurt, _so bad. A needle had to pierce him every time to stitch every piece, every shred of him. And it was slow, always slow, because he couldn't possibly go any faster than this. It was scary to fall into something like this, a great descent that wasn't really a descent. Nothing at the bottom was bad, because at the bottom was ___her _heart, waiting there for him, patient as she always was for him, but he was afraid of it. He was afraid of letting her have all of him. Once his heart was completely glued back together, what would happen? What will she do? Would she hurt him like everyone else...?

His fingers laced into her hair, strands of blacks and blues and purples wrapped around his sun-kissed digits loosely, silken like her tongue, deepening the kiss, begging for more of her, and of course she would give him more. All she'd ever wanted was to be with him. If she died any day now, she would die with no other regret than leaving him behind, and he knew that. He had to. She arched her back, stretched up, stood on her tiptoes, trying to give him what he wanted. He would never ask aloud, he would never voice his desires. He had always been the most vocal person, telling everyone who cared to listen his dreams and ambitions, his thoughts and his hopes, but never his hardships, never his sorrow, never his pain. And the need for her was rooted so deep within him, just like his melancholy. The need to be near her, to hold her, to never let her go, scared him just as much as his demons.

His heart was pounding, it always was around her. He didn't know if he was afraid of losing her, or just relieved that she was there. He couldn't tell and that ___scared _him. He wasn't supposed to feel this way, for anyone.

Whatever happened to loving his pink-haired teammate? Whatever happened to the crush he had on her? He remembered being so happy because he thought she understood him, his troubles. He remembered rejoicing whenever he was around her, because he was so close to her, because she was letting him be there. He remembered feeling fluttery and just like a kid again, only better because his childhood had never been _that___pleasant.

Now, though, he didn't feel that way. When he looked into Sakura's green eyes, he didn't feel all those emotions, all those sensations. It was ___Hinata _who he thought of now and he wondered ___why_, and ___when_, and ___how did this happen_? Wasn't Hinata that weirdo that always turned beet red around him, that stuttered and couldn't look him in the eyes?

She meant so much more to him now and it tore at him. Everything he used to feel around her was gone, except for the feeling of being accepted, the relief to be able to look at her and know she didn't judge him. He was protective of her now, so much more attuned to her needs and her emotions. He couldn't go a day anymore without her, and that was the scariest part. Since when had he become so dependent on her?

"H-Hinata," he mumbled around her mouth, her body pressing his into the wall. She was so small, enough that he was certain he could hurt her quite easily if he ever lost his senses. Her hair was long again, tumbling down her back and to her waist like a waterfall, inky and shining. Her little hands clutched at his chest, stark white against his peachy color. He could feel her shape beneath her lavender cotton dress, all soft lines and womanly curves. To this day, no matter how much time passed, he still became flustered at the thought of her bare. No amount of time could make him used to the shock of her beauty. He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she wanted ___him_, of all people. Such a stunning, perfect woman Hinata Hyuga was. Why him? Why not someone more suitable? Her father certainly didn't approve, but that was to be expected. For so long, he had always been the monster of the village. To have your own daughter choose the one freak amongst all the refined young men she'd always met throughout her life must've been the worst sting.

Her delicate hands, the very ones that had created the masterpiece hung right beside his head, found their way into his sunny blond hair, pulling him down ever so gently to capture his coral pink lips once more, her hand sliding down to cup his face, warming with a dark blush.

The sunlight was lowering slowly, glowing in his cobalt eyes, darkening and then fluttering shut, and then his nose and their mouths, connected, lips whispering against one another, and then their chins, until he pulled away to gasp for breath, sapphire orbs glistening, a warm orange glow all around them. "Hinata...please..." he murmured, his forehead brushing hers, sunny strands catching midnight ones.

Sometimes, he just wanted her to take over. It was rare, because her more modest ways never allowed it. Almost always, he was the one coaxing her into their bed, kissing away her insecurities and telling her she was the most beautiful woman in the world to him. He was the one that initiated everything, the one who soothed her worries with his touches, the one on top, guiding her, leading her to her completion, to her peace. But sometimes, just sometimes, he couldn't do it. He had insecurities, too. He had worries, too. He had fears and anxieties, perhaps more than she did.

Naruto Uzumaki was a very passionate man. Everything he did, he did it with his whole heart put into it, wounded and hurt and all. Everything he said, he meant it to the very last word. And everything he felt, he felt it to an intensity she was sure she would never be able to sustain. Every emotion he ever had was stronger than she could imagine, and why? Because that was who he was, intense, powerful, genuine, pure... Every tear that ever spilled from his blue eyes tore at him, brought him absolute bliss, and scalded his flesh. Every laugh that erupted from him was sincere, caused in him a fire that tickled his very soul. He bottled every one of them he didn't want to share, those negativities he didn't want other people to see, and kept them tightly shut so no one will worry over him. But at one point they will crack the glass of the bottle, spill from him and fill him with the pain he hadn't wanted to show. And he couldn't control it because, Naruto, he was such an impulsive being.

Had the portrait caused this? Had that painting he had inspired some years ago shattered that bottle?

These times, as seldom as they were, always tested her progress. Her confidence can only go so high before it plummets back down again. This was the time she had to build it on her own to help him. She didn't want him to suffer over something like this. Even if her heart raced and her breath caught and she trembled, she would do this for him. These were the only times he was truly vulnerable to her, blue eyes wide and pale in a way they shouldn't be, a baby blue that she remembered as a child, standing by a fence while people threw pebbles at him, large and afraid and confused. It was terrifying to think he was reverting back into that, but she understood all too well why it was he felt that way. Sometimes, she did the same. And he was ___always _there to help her. And she'd be there for him.

"It's okay, Naruto-kun," she replied softly, petting his electric hair, wild and chaotic as always. Her hands became lost in the tangles of his hair, scraping lightly against his scalp with filed nails she kept neat and tidy. "I'm here." She always would be, for as long as he needed her.

The painting stayed in the living room, right were the sun would always shine over it, a reminder of the anguish of being without him. She led him down the hall, along smooth wooden floors, letting him hold her hand as tightly as he pleased, because the mumbles underneath his breath made her frantic to guide him back to his sanity. She didn't hate the villagers for doing this to him, she just regretted not being there earlier for him, to save him from this inevitable depression that overtook him.

She turned as they entered their room, sliding the door shut and waiting there beside him, his head bowed and breathing slowly. She brought his hand up to her lips, kissing his knuckles gently, calming him so very slightly. Slight. Always taking tiny steps. That's all Naruto could ever give her. But that was fine with her. She wasn't in any hurry.

If anything, that only made things so much sweeter in the end.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

Their home was small, built atop a little hill by an old man that Naruto claimed made the best vegetable soup he had ever tasted. As a child, Naruto would roam the village, hungry, trying to outrun the glares sent at him, the teasing, the bullying, the hatred, and would occasionally stumble upon an elderly person who remembered his father's last wish and would offer him something to eat, a few moments of precious kindness that he would soak in like a sponge whenever he could. She did not doubt that he might've met every elderly man and woman in the village, passing by them and gratefully taking their offered food and letting his broken heart be mended for just a brief moment, and so she did not have the slightest uncertainty that what he said was true. The little old man that had built their house in his youth most likely did make the best vegetable soup in the village, and Naruto had been lucky enough to taste it in ___his _youth.

It had two bedrooms, one they shared and one she secretly hoped would be for their child one day. It was cozy and comfortable and everything she could ever want, homely and furnished nicely, with fitting decorations they had chosen together. Sometimes, when she peeked into the extra room and tried to envision baby furniture in it, she would smile to herself and nod happily, and then a spike of fear would pierce her chest as the image was tainted with blood and fire and the smell of death. They were shinobi, and their duties, she knew, would never be too far behind them. It would always follow them, no matter how much time passed.

The moments they had together, alone, were the nicest. Because he'd tell her stories as they lie down in the living room to stare up at the ceiling, or when he catches her staring out at the sky and rests his chin on her head and smiles and makes up silly pictures from the clouds, or even spins around in a circle until she comes near him in her curiosity, asking questions softly, and then catch her by the shoulders to steady himself and place a little kiss on her cheek that makes her blush and mutter nervous excuses about burning bread in the oven, waving her hands around and backing away.

It was nice to know he wasn't ___too _serious and wasn't ___too _worried. He was never reserved and never made her feel unwanted. He was there when she was sad to put his fingers at the ends of her lips to make her smile and chuckle when she pouts. He was there to twirl her hair between his fingers and grin when she looks at him in confusion. He was there to hold her when she cries over wars that never end and peace that never comes. He was there, making her feel safe, and needed, and ___loved_, and it was so much more than she could ever ask for. How much more could she possibly want? He was all she'd ever wanted in life and he was ___there_, beside her, holding her hand when they faced an enemy so many more worlds stronger than them and telling her, with a confidence she could never muster up in a thousand years, that there was no way he was losing. That there was no way he was leaving her.

And, oh, ___God_, was he beautiful when he was fighting, when he was laughing, when he was happy, when he was looking at her with those soulful eyes. And, ___oh_, if only she could be as heartbreakingly, breathtakingly, soulwrenchingly beautiful as he was right then, with fire blazing all around him, the world falling to ruins, the sky breaking above them, bending and caving in, his sunny hair spotted with soot and his face bright with shallow cuts and streaks of mud and dirt, his clothing torn and body worn out, blue eyes glistening with tears of relief, tears of happiness, tears of uncontainable, undeniable, undefinable, wonderful joy... He could've been a fallen angel for all she knew right then, collapsed on the ground because, for just one horrible moment, she had almost doubted him, almost lost all hope, and he was there, standing over her, smiling so faintly that it caused an ache in her that was ___different _from all the pain of war, whispering, "I told you."

And, ___yes_, she loved him so much that it ___hurt_, and he was so, so beautiful to her that she wanted to cry and sing and scream and laugh, because, when he kissed her, he was gentle, like he was afraid she would break and it was the most amazing thing to know she could cause such a feeling in Naruto Uzumaki, the boy who had proven everyone wrong, the boy who had changed the world, the boy who had chosen ___her _over all the other millions of people to be with.

Years spent cheering him on silently from a distance, and finally she could hold him and tell him, "I knew you could do it."

The smile he always gave her was the warmest she'd ever seen.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

His skin, surprisingly, felt soft. The scars that faded to faint pale lines were oddly smooth. They added to his charm, she thought. Not one mark on his body seemed out of place. Perhaps undeserved, in her personal opinion, but fitting of him. He'd always been somewhat rough around the edges, whenever his emotions built up too much without him addressing them, and he grew a little agitated, and the the scars spoke of that. In a way, they had every bit as much right to be there as they didn't. The muscles were alluring in a way she was far too timid to admit, the way they caused an excitement to grow within her made her blush deeply, unsure whether to tell him how much she liked his body. Now, though, it seemed appropriate. Maybe this time she should tell him how she feels about him, how wonderful he was to her, how perfect he was.

But the way his eyes grew ever paler, and yet cloudier, offered her no opening for that. He was closing up and she was becoming more and more panicked. She couldn't let him, she ___wouldn't_, because where was the boy she had grown up admiring? Where was the boy who had inspired her to push past all her limits? ___Where_...?

She caught his face between her delicate pallid hands, leveling their eyes and giving him a stern look. His shining orbs, a cloudy cerulean rather than his brilliant cobalt, moved over her porcelain face, vaguely remembering the time he had lost all hope, when her slender hand had clapped firmly against his cheek, pearly eyes hard and yet soft, cold and yet warm, disapproving and yet comforting. He felt his breath hitch, unsure how to feel about this side of her. It always caught him off guard, almost forgetting that Hinata isn't weak at all, just somewhat timid and somewhat withdrawn. But no, not weak. Anything but weak.

Wasn't he the only one that believed in her? Wasn't he the one that had cheered for her when nobody else had? He had seen the strength in her when no one else could, he had seen the potential for greatness, a faint and flickering candlelight in her eyes waiting to catch onto something, to spread out across her and burn everything down that was in her way, scald her until she was mere ashes just so she could be reborn into something amazing, something ___more_, like a phoenix, rare and fiery and gentle and sweet all at once. So, ___why _was he so surprised to see this side of her, the one he had always been able to find there in her pallid eyes, the one no one else in the ___world _had been able to spot, the one no one else had believed in?

"...Hinata..." he whispered, closing his eyes against the sadness sinking its icy sharp teeth deep into his pounding heart. Never, not once, had he thought he could feel this much pain. Not at being ignored, not at being hated, not at being hurt, but at being loved, like he had always wanted to be. How could he feel this much ___fear _when he looked at her, feeling her hands cradle his face as if he was breakable—and perhaps he really was, perhaps he always had been and he had always been two mere steps from shattering into a million shards of glass that didn't even shine, didn't even cut, didn't even make a sound—feeling her thumbs stroke his cheeks as if he was a precious jewel, a wonderful gift—and maybe, just maybe, he was, at least to her. And, ___why_, dear God, did that scare him so much? Why was he so petrified at being held like this?

And why was he so ___relieved_?

"P...please..." he begged, but what was he asking for, what did he ___want_? He squeezed his eyes shut tight, clenching his fists and then freezing when he felt her lips brush across his own so faintly, so softly, so carefully, and all his strength left him. He bowed his head, letting her do as she pleased. ___Don't hurt me_, he wanted to say, but of course she wouldn't dare lay a finger on him. She cherished him in a way no one else ever had, and how could he want to run away from this feeling, no matter how scary it was? "Hinata..." he breathed, relaxing very slightly.

"Don't be scared," she murmured, just before pressing her lips fully onto his. He never refuses her, even now, melting into the kiss very slowly, like ice thawing, warming, melding into her. He tasted like water, crisp and simple, but of fresh fruits and sweet candy, so innocent and so endearing, of salty noodles and cooked vegetables, the taste of ramen forever in his mouth. His tongue, she knew, was long and somewhat pointed, because he'd stuck it out once when it was snowing in hopes of catching a flake on his dark pink appendage, blushing underneath his whiskered cheeks when he caught her watching, and pouting petulantly when she gave a short giggle, charmed. His lips had been darkened by the sun, like his skin, and his teeth were stark white and he had pointed canines that she traced now with the tip of her own tongue.

She sat him down on their bed, dark blankets and cotton sheets, propped against the headboard with pillows supporting his back, combing her fingers through his wild hair and smiling when he opened his eyes, only to shut them again quickly, unsure, and make her lips turn down slightly in worry.

His lashes weren't blond, they were black, not long and not short, and pointed slightly, making his eyes seem all the more alert, accentuating his brilliant eyes that might've sparkled now with unshed tears. His nose was sharp and his whiskers were smooth against his cheeks, imprinted into his skin, every bit a part of him as his hands or his ears. His hair was sunny, electric, ruffled and messy but soft to the touch. And his skin, that was smooth and surprisingly soft, was dark beneath her hands, with scars across his chest that were fitting and yet not, and with lean muscles underneath that made something burn inside her that she would never say aloud, because maybe she was afraid of what he'd think.

Would she be any less if she admitted how much she wanted him?

He caved in beneath her, eyes shutting when she smoothed a hand down his chest, her other hand caressing his face, red blooming there beneath her fingertips as if she herself had taken a brush and put it there. And that was fitting, because what was it that had started this? What was it that had moved him so deeply that that little bottle inside of him—hiding all of his nightmares and unspoken sorrows—had shattered on the spot? Was she an artist, then? If she could make Naruto Uzumaki break just by letting her emotions bleed and spill across an open canvass, what else could she possibly do? How much power could she possibly have?

She didn't want to linger on the thought.

She could ___hear _rather than ___feel _the way his heart thundered against his ribs, breath shallow, blue eyes shining, yellow brows furrowed, lips parted, pink tongue swiping across his lower lip, watching her undo the buttons of his too-tight pants, jet black like his lashes, like ink. The lines of his stomach all seemed to point down to where her hands hovered over, shadows dipping into the shapes of his muscles, the smooth, but raised scars casting little figures across his skin. A sun-kissed color, darker in some places than others, lighter than dirt but darker than sugar. Her hand was a sharp contrast there upon his stomach, slender fingers spread, his bellybutton in the center of her soft palm. The way his zipper came undone, silvery teeth pulling apart, and the way his breath left him, made her heart flutter for a moment. His blue eyes widened for a second, surprised, frozen, before he blushed once more and muttered, "I'll...take it off..."

She waited, patient as only she could be, pulling at the end of her lavender dress shyly. It was a dress he had bought for her some weeks ago, while they had strolled through town, arms linked and her head resting against his shoulder, a peaceful smile on her gentle face, closing her eyes happily as he told her about his dream from the night before, about the ocean and pirates and adventures he'd only seen in movies, which paled in comparison to the things he'd done in reality. He had stopped abruptly, pulling her from her thoughts, and pointed at a mannequin set up outside of a little shop on a corner. The dress was the same purple her old sweater had been, with a white lacy ribbon tied beneath the bust, bunched up roses etched into the lace. He'd murmured softly, "That would look great on you," and the blush that burned her face made him pull her inside to buy it immediately. She really did like the dress, soft beneath her fingertips and surprisingly comfortable. And as she watched him lift his hips to push down his too-tight pants, she smiled and wondered if he did, too; if, perhaps, he hadn't bought it ___just _because he figured ___she _would like it.

The pants crumpled onto the floor, a pool of ink on the wooden boards, and then a pair of shorts that had swirls printed on them fell just beside them, and he was hugging his knees, becoming unreasonably self-conscious. He knew she wouldn't judge him, she never has, but his body still trembled and heart still pounded. He didn't want to close his eyes, because when he did he saw a sea of faces scrunched up in disgust, in hatred, in annoyance, and if he kept them open, he would only see her kind face, lips turning up to smile at him sweetly.

Her hand reached out to touch his back, his skin hot and soft beneath hers, and then leaned forward to rest her cheek against his shoulder, lightly burning against her flesh, feeling him slowly let out a long breath to calm himself. The kiss she placed on his ear made him catch that breath one more time, trying to loosen his muscles, to welcome her in like he always did. His hair was fluffy, and felt like puppy fur, bright strands tickling her lips as she moved to kiss his head. He felt her hand slide between his leg and his stomach, her breath tickling the back of his neck.

He slowly relaxed back into her, taking shallow breaths as she caressed his skin, painstakingly gentle, coaxing him to lie on his back. He blinked up at her, light reflecting in his eyes, shining, gleaming as she rested her hand over his heart, thumping quickly beneath the cage of his ribs, the burning of his flesh, tracing one whitened mark spanning the whole of his chest. She wondered how it got there, how long it had been there, and if it had hurt him too much. She remembered when she had given him her family ointment, and how the scratches on his skin had healed right away, how she had known instantly that it wasn't the medicine she had made that had caused that. She had known what the ingredients were in that ointment, she had mixed it herself, crushed the herbs with her own hands and poured the mixture into the little wooden capsule on her own, and she had known full well how quickly a wound would heal when it was applied. Whatever had caused those scratches to fade away so quickly had not been her medicine. And as she followed the line of the mark out toward his shoulder, she wondered why ___this _hadn't healed on its own, like all the other cuts had.

He held his breath as her lips pressed over his heart, her hand smoothing down his stomach, the lean ripples of muscle and lines, down toward his hip, sending tingles up his spine. She kissed down along his chest, following a trail the sun lit up from the window, fine yellow hairs glowing where her rose petal lips whispered softly, down his ribcage, hardly visible beneath his tanned skin, expanding and contracting quickly, fidgeting beneath her, unsure what to do with his hands. Her silken hair spilled across her shoulder, the very ends tickling his stomach and then slipping past his side and curling near his hip as she lowered her head to kiss his abdomen. He didn't want to think about where it was she was headed, where her kisses were leading her to; it made something panic within him.

Hinata would never hurt him, he knew that by now.

But his mind breathed lies and his heart grew more terrified.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

He noticed her growing up, although at times he chose to ignore her, afraid she'd be the same as everyone else, scowling at him, snapping at him. But there were times she would pass and his eyes would be drawn to her, her elegance and gracefulness. The Hyuga family was renowned, wealthy, prosperous, refined, and she was their heir. He had learned that in the Academy, glancing along with everyone else at the timid girl who sat in the back, blushing brightly and looking down, and while everyone else in the class picked on her and teased her for it—although just as secretly amazed as he was—he had stared, wondering, utterly fascinated at the prospect of being in the same room as someone so famous and lucky. Famous because of her name, and lucky because her life would never be difficult. At least, that's what he imagined. And his imagination had always been quite vivid in picturing other people's lives, always assuming their lives were a thousand times better than his. And hers, he believed, was a ___billion _times better.

He figured she didn't know the meaning of hunger like he did—___oh no, _not like he did—that she didn't know how it felt to have your stomach twist and snarl at you, the pain shooting through your body, your throat growing dry but your mouth salivating copiously, swallowing down the acid trying to burn its way out, feeling as if you don't even have enough energy to lift a finger... She most likely didn't know how many days a child's body could go without eating a single thing, how many nights a person could stay awake without going utterly mad...

She must've known of only the finest things. The softest blankets and the cleanest water, the warmest beds and the sweetest fruits, the greatest foods and the nicest clothing. He imagined her home was huge, made of smooth wood and tall walls, high ceilings and bright lights. Perhaps her bedroom was decorated with lots of colors and cute little pictures and stuffed animals, girly things, pampered by a loving father and adored by a kindly mother. Maybe she had a little sibling to play with, and cousins to emulate, uncles and aunts to be complimented by and grandparents to hear stories from. Maybe she spent some nights by a fireplace and listened to her grandfather's richly aged voice recount the day he met her grandmother, or maybe she whispers scary stories with her cousins under a blanket until their parents come to scold them playfully for staying up so late. And maybe she was tucked in, she and her sibling both, and told a bedtime story softly by her mother as her father flicked on a nightlight because she was scared of the dark, just like he was—though, of course, for completely different reasons, ___she _didn't hear people yelling at night and ___she _didn't feel the whispers of a demon telling her she was all alone and always would be—and maybe she dozed off with her mother singing a lullaby, the taste of hot tea fresh on her tongue and warm in her belly, completely and entirely content with her life.

She would certainly be cherished, like a pearl, for those eyes that very much did resemble one, for being born pure and lovely, for having unique blood in her system and having special genes no one else did. Her delicate pale skin must've been so soft and her inky hair that seemed to glow violet in the sun must've felt like silk. He could only imagine because he—never, ___ever—_would lay a single finger on her, would ever speak to her, would ever look at her so openly as everyone else...

Maybe, in another life time, where she wasn't a princess and he wasn't a peasant, where she wasn't so special and he wasn't so different, they could've been friends. Talking and laughing and playing. She would look at him like her equal and he would know she would understand him. Because in that other life, he would certainly have a family, too, and a little sibling and cousins and uncles and aunts and grandparents; he would have food in his belly every day and he would have a warm bed to sleep in and somebody to whisper goodnight to, softly, sweetly, because he would love them with all his heart, and give them everything he had because he would never ___dare _be selfish, never ___dare _be a brat, and everything he was would be because of them. And she would have a family, too, because in Naruto Uzumaki's eyes, nobody could ___ever _be as sad as him. They couldn't be. Never.

He didn't want to believe anyone could ever suffer like he did. He didn't want to. He couldn't. No one deserved that pain.

But he found himself crying silently as he watched her look up at a man he could only assume was her father, reach up to hold one finger in her small hand and follow him to her home he could only ever see in his mind, gritting his teeth and shutting his bright blue eyes, pain tearing at him, because he ___wanted _that other life, he ___wanted _to be her friend, he did, he really, really did.

If life had ever been kind to him, it would've granted him that.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

Her tongue felt like burning silk against him, and a sigh escaped him, hitching when she placed a kiss, feather light, on his aching body. Slowly, gently, lovingly, she stroked him, mouth hot around him, humming along with him when he moaned softly. Heat built within him, scorching, shooting through his bones, his muscles, his veins, as she lightly sucked on the very tip. Her hair tickled his thighs, his stomach, ink swirling very briefly, a black spiral that lasted for a second before she pulled her head back to take him in her hand once more and meet his gaze gradually, an emotion in them that made his heart throb.

_Stop_, he wanted to beg, but a breathless mumble was all that he could manage, a faint whimper of her name, trying to keep his hips from rising off the bed. His hands clenched into fists, twisting the sheets, fighting every instinct that pleaded he bury himself deeper in the heat wrapped around him. He threw his head back, deeper into the seafoam colored pillows, opening his mouth in a silent scream as she took him ___just _a little further into her warm mouth, satiny tongue sliding along him softly. ___Please_, he wanted to say, ___please... _His sapphire eyes opened, brilliant and tortured, shining with tears he could never explain and clouded with rapture, bliss, tilting his head back further and back arching, the muscles in his abdomen straining, letting out a shaky gasp, panting, and then holding his breath as something snapped within him, eyes rolling back and a moan of her name, deep and throaty, spilling from him, world coming to a stop, for just a second of peace.

She licked her lips as she pulled away, caressing his hips and his thighs soothingly, catching stray droplets that glinted a pale ivory orange in the setting sun. He slowly relaxed into the bed, chest heaving, hands slack, streams left over from sweat thinning, the muscles in his stomach loosening until he was completely and utterly mellow. His eyes were dark now, a deep ultramarine, ___not __pale_, glistening, black lashes wet, mouth opening as he caught his breath. She smiled warmly, lips curling further as he looked away bashfully after a moment.

_You're so beautiful_, she thought, watching him as he crossed his arms in embarrassment, blue eyes flickering every which way nervously, red burning his cheeks. He was ashamed of himself, losing control so quickly, but she was already crawling up his body to kiss his forehead, murmuring reassurances and praising him. Her dress clung to her in ways he hadn't noticed before, hugged her curves tightly and pooled around her prettily. His hand curled around her waist, a burning building inside him at the sight of her. He pressed his lips against her shoulder lightly, closing his eyes briefly. She was warm, soft like silk and smelled so sweet, like honey and fresh like water, smooth like satin and warm like home. Everything beautiful and kind wrapped in one. His hands ran down her sides carefully, feeling every fold and crease of her dress, the delicate contours of her body, until he reached the hem, where fabric met smooth skin, and slowly slid up the skirt, only hinting what he wanted. He could never say it out loud, because since when has Hinata Hyuga ever been anything but subtle?

The white lace loosened, the pallid roses falling to the ground in soft flutters, her dress slipping off and tumbling down, a dainty crumple on the floor beside his pants. And then black, her lacy underwear that shined in the fading sunlight that glowed through their opaque curtains, hot against her skin because she was so ___white_, and it was such an endless black, not like her hair. It shone a dark silver where her hair was all purple and blues and fascinating hues of darkness and elegance. He felt around until he found a simple hook, and off came the bra, slipping from her easily, down her arms and to the floor. She pulled his hands up to catch her ample breasts, full and soft and lovely. He blushed again, dark and endearing, looking down and caressing them hesitantly. Every time reminded her of their first time, smiling nervously and uncertainly feeling about.

He never failed to make her happy. It didn't matter how trivial the reason was.

She smiled, whispering her lips across his forehead. "Naruto-kun," she breathed against his skin.

His blush deepened, ducking his head to kiss her breast lightly with timid lips. His touch could make her whole world spin, like a top, twirling in a circle, a half second from toppling over. It could make her soar, into the clouds and wide blue skies, lost forever in an endless expanse of air and freedom and peace. He could make her feel precious, a jewel he would never give away, holding her close and cherishing her; a diamond, shining prettily in the light, or a pearl he had found all on his own and couldn't bear to part with. The heat coming off him made her eyes fall shut, his tongue softly running along the swell of her breast, making her sigh. When her fingers combed his hair, he immediately pulled away, letting his hands fall down to her hips uncertainly, leaving behind a cooling trail around her pallid pink nipple.

No, it wasn't often Naruto lost his confidence. It was actually very rare. The shell he hid in was one no one ever saw and no one ever knew, where his world was lonely and dark. She wanted to know what went through his mind, she wanted to know what it was that he saw there, why his eyes darkened so and his brow was so deeply creased with worry. But it was one place she didn't belong, one he didn't let her reach. And it really did hurt to know there were things he kept from her, when all she ever offered was truth and trust, and he couldn't return it. And she tried to understand, she tried to see it through his eyes—endlessly blue and filled with things she could hardly ever fathom, brimming with secrets and stories all the same, and yet so completely different—but his world was one she did not know, try as she may. Her attempts were akin to feeble clawing at thick walls that were no closer to falling than the first time she met him, pressing her face into the tender curve of his neck, warm and so ___alive_, like she had always wanted to be, and it pained her to know she was no closer to reaching him than what she started with.

All she really wanted was his heart, broken and scarred and insecure as it was, because this was ___Naruto_, and he had always been the very best of all the rest of them, no matter what power he held inside of him. If, for a moment, she could hold him in her arms, and know he was ___there_, every last bit of him, she wouldn't dare ask for any more. She hadn't just fallen in love with a piece of him, the one she saw day after day, smiling and grinning and laughing, but ___all _of him, even the bits she never did see. Because Naruto did cry, like she did, and Naruto was afraid, just like her. He was human, and that's all that mattered to her, that he was ___alive _and breathing and warm and who he was. She had fallen in love with him ___because _he was broken and lonely, because that was just a part of him, and she wanted to be the one to put him back together again, stay by his side until his sadness was just a horrible memory.

If that was selfish, she didn't care. She just wanted him to be happy. That's all she ever wanted, really.

She pressed her lips against his cheekbone, lightly, smoothing her hands down his chest as she let her kisses drift down to his mouth. His eyes fell shut, at once blissful and calm. Her lips were soft and pink, like a pretty little rose, and her lashes tickled him when she pressed her forehead against his neck. He let her ease him onto his back once more, warm and melting beneath her like ice in the summer, slowly but surely. And her skin burned into his, a silken leg sliding across his own, and his face was ___scorching pink _and he was panting, because he'd never been ___touched _this way before. So lightly, so tenderly, as if ___he _would break. As if ___he _was precious.

As if he mattered.

His hands couldn't find a place to settle, tangling in her inky hair, obsidian and violet and navy blue strands wrapping around his sun-kissed fingers, running along her back, relaxed and smooth as she stretched her petite body along his own, hooking her leg over his hip, pulling her closer still because he couldn't stand any space between them... For a second, he felt like they were one, in a purely simple way, her pearly eyes blinking down at his sapphire ones, the darkening purples and pinks of sundown illuminating them for the moment, and he felt like it was freezing him just as her skin was warming him, felt like crying because, all at once, his pain resurfaced as her delicate fingers caressed his jaw. Just for a second. And then he cradled her face and kissed her, hotly, because he didn't want to think about it any longer. It was a scary feeling, falling in love, and he had hoped it would go away, had figured he'd already reached the limit. He assumed that all there was to love about Hinata Hyuga was already accounted for. He thought that this was it.

But, ___no_, he was still falling in love, deeper still, down that dark hole, her heart still waiting, and he didn't ___want _to. He was scared. And if he could just pretend it wasn't happening, then maybe it wasn't.

After all, as a child, pretending was what he did best. He could hide for ___hours _and no one would find him, and he would tell himself it wasn't because nobody was looking, but because he really was the best in the world. So good, in fact, he could perhaps stay hidden for days and no one would know. If he could make himself believe that as a kid, then maybe he could make himself think Hinata Hyuga really ___hadn't _broken him apart like this. And yet...

_And yet..._

Were her hands—hands that had created the masterpiece that still gnawed at his heart now for all its splendor and magnificence—dragging out his demons once more? And were her lips—sweet like honey melting in the summer and silver bells tinkling in the wind and kindness that never did leave those lavender eyes—whispering promises he couldn't keep? His heart was pounding, throbbing, ___bleeding _for her, and his breath was shaky and his lungs were caving. His hands trembled—he didn't want to ___hurt _her—and tears pricked at his eyes. ___Yes_, he was falling in love with her all over again and, ___yes_, it was tearing him inside and out and he didn't ___understand _it. He thought he'd already been through all this. He thought he'd felt all the things that came with this.

But when his eyes opened to look at her, so beautiful he wanted to cry, he realized the truth of the matter was that, ___no_, of course that wasn't it. Nothing could ever be that simple. He of all people should know that well.

Life had never been kind to him.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

She guided him, a gentle murmur of a reassurance in his ear as he sunk slowly deeper into the scalding sweetness between her silken thighs. His eyes squeezed shut and he hid his face in her shoulder—a delicate, porcelain curve of a shoulder—soft and smooth inky hair kissing his nose as she kissed his ear, hot like his skin burning into her own, body melding into her own. He trembled above her and the sigh that escaped her tickled his skin, soothed him. She stroked his back, his muscles twitching beneath her touch. "It's okay, Naruto-kun," she whispered. "You're fine..."

They could've done this a thousand times, and it still felt like their first time. Blushing and hesitant, faint touches and light kisses, unsure, doubtful. His face was hot and red, pulling back ever so slightly, keeping his sapphire eyes on a single strand of ink swirling just above her breast, where beneath her heart pounded just as hard as his. "Hinata..." he mumbled, closing his eyes as she pressed her lips against his temple gently, slender hands smoothing up along his back. Her legs wrapped around his waist slowly, pulling him deeper into her warmth, holding him closer.

She rocked up toward him, taking the lead, and he followed, almost obediently, letting her cradle his face between her shoulder and neck, where the scent of honey and cherries and orchids still lingered. Her milky fingers tangled in the sunny strands of his wild hair, setting the pace, slow, languid, tender. Just like their first time. Just like almost every time.

And it never ceased to amaze her, the color of his skin—tan from a childhood spent in the sun—and the faint scars that spanned it, the rough feel of his hands as they held her so gently, the scent of his determination and motivation manifested in his sweat, the taste of his tongue as they kissed, all he'd never said and all he'd wanted to, the look in his eyes with all those emotions swimming deep within them, the knowledge of knowing she had him, and the rest of her life lied ahead of her to spend with him. "Naruto-kun," she murmured, his breath hot on her skin, blurring away her every thought. "I..." she trailed off, her small nose drifting across the strong line of his jaw, slender hands gently tugging at his hair, coaxing, letting his lips cut her off, capturing her own.

She was small beneath him, fragile, so soft and vulnerable. He felt like he could break her at any moment, should he be too hasty in any way, but she held him close and breathed soothing words, words that touched a place inside of him he couldn't fully understand, a place no one else could reach—a place he wouldn't ___let _anyone else reach. His hands trailed up along her sides, unsure how to touch her now, whispering his lips against hers, if only to keep a hold on his sanity. She had that affect on him somehow, a peace settling within him he'd never known he could feel. He pulled his hips back slowly, and she met him halfway, digging her nails into his shoulders, clinging to him as he did to her, and he let out a breathless laugh as he realized, pressing his forehead against hers, that this wasn't entirely just about him—no, it could never be; then he'd be selfish and she'd be nothing more than an object, and Hinata Hyuga meant millions of things more than that—and that this wasn't merely a means of letting him escape from his demons. It was her way of saying, "___You're not alone anymore, I'm here now_," and it broke him down, because she needed him, too, just like he needed her. And he wondered when he had become so dependent on her; when had he become so reliant on her comfort? Hadn't he taught himself to handle things like this?

Her mouth followed the line of his jaw, toward his ear, nibbling so lightly on the lobe, and he felt his azure eyes roll slightly, eyelids fall shut for a moment, his pace falter, and his hands pressed along her back, coaxing her to arch, pressing her breasts against his chest and her head fall back, exposing the smooth, ivory column of her throat. The walls were colored a deep purple now, tinged with the darkest blue, casting more shadows across their bodies, the sheets beneath them, her legs tight around him and their hips moving in unison, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his skin to meet his thrusts. His tongue left a trail of thin, shining liquid along the curve of her fine throat, cooling on her blistering skin, a pleading gasp escaping him when her hands caught his hips, pulling him down a little harder, a little deeper within her wetness, silently telling him what she was incapable of right then, pearly eyes hidden behind her tightly shut lids, long black lashes brushing against her cheekbones, and then his nose as he leaned down again to kiss her cheek, stained pink now, lovely on her skin, like rose petals in the snow.

She was everywhere, touching, kissing, soothing him, scorching warmth and dripping want between her legs and silky soft everywhere else. Her skin tasted like honey-sweet silver and hot black cherries and water and everything kind and ___good_, and stray strands of inky hair were painted upon her skin in swirls and curls of graceful patterns, stuck to his arms with their sweat, mixing together like their tongues in her mouth and then his, and her breasts filled his hands and the tips at the very center of each, pink and pretty and perky, fit nicely in his mouth, and when he tweaked them—gently because he couldn't think of any other way to be with Hinata Hyuga—she gasped and she writhed and she breathed his name into the darkness of the room, and he imagined it clouded there at her mouth like his breath did when it was too cold outside and he watched the black air as he sighed out in puffs, innocent and wondering like she did now... And his hands held her hips, smoothed down along her sides, down her thighs, wrapped around his own hips, stroking and urging and begging, ___please, I need more of you_, but he didn't dare say it out loud.

He was already selfish enough as it was.

And she was gasping, clutching onto his shoulders because he was suddenly thrusting faster, breathing raggedly against her mouth, cobalt eyes glazed over and half shut, resting his weight on his elbows and biting her lower lip lightly. "Na... Naru..." she tried to say, bliss thrumming through her body, pulsating through her veins, pooling in her stomach... "Naruto...kun... Please," she panted, perfectly thawed nails scratching thin red lines along his shoulders, (healing already when she licked them) returning the sweltering kiss he gave her, wet and hot like her heat wrapped tightly around him.

"God..." Naruto sighed, letting her push him up, pulling herself onto his lap, coiling her slender arms around his neck. Her knees spread on either side of him, her back straightening as much as she could, to kiss the bottom of his chin lightly, his hands finding her hips once more as she rolled them toward him, long black hair catching onto his fingers, her shoulder blades, his arms, his thighs... He jolted under her, letting his forehead fall to her shoulder, mouth opening in a silent moan, her fingers pressing against his skin, rocking against him once more, a sigh escaping the both of them.

His skin had darkened further for a moment, and then the ghostly curtain of a waxing moon alighted them both, bleaching her porcelain flesh and softening his skin to a peachy color, shadows dipping over every curve of her body, smooth and even, and every muscle of his, lean and tightening and his hands guided her upwards and then down once more, slowly, languidly, blue eyes glinting as he lifted his head to kiss her gently. His thumb stroked her hip, pressing down firmly and flattening a large hand against the small of her back, pulling away to run his long fingers through her hair, tangled and sweaty and soft like satin. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were lost as his other hand stroked her thigh, moving up her stomach to cup her breast, to run his thumb across an aching pink nub, and then down once more to soft black curls. She bit her lower lip for a moment, muffling her whine, and scrambling to hold on to his arms as he guided her back into the pillows to touch her. She hooked a leg around his middle, pulling him deep where she needed him most, pulsating and hard within her, taking his hand and pressing it over her heart, pounding beneath her breast.

_You're the most beautiful in the moonlight_, he wanted to say, brushing a kiss over her heartbeat, the pink of her blush spreading over her skin alluringly. ___You're the most beautiful when you're like this... _He trailed his lips up to her own, ivory flesh quivering beneath his hands, sighing into her mouth as her soothing fingers combed through his hair. "Hinata..." he whispered, closing his eyes as her legs smoothed across his, pulling him down flush against her small body. "...I'm sorry..."

Her pearly eyes traced his face, whiskered cheeks and the shining bridge of his nose, sapphire eyes hidden behind his black lashes that seemed out of place and yet all-too-fitting. "You should never be sorry," she murmured, nuzzling his face once more in the crook of her slight shoulder.

He pressed her further into the bed, taking her ear in his mouth and reaching a hand between them. "I want to thank you," he breathed. "I want you to know..." She hissed faintly, hips jerking up toward him as his thumb brushed a button hidden beneath inky curls. ___I want you to know how much I love you_... Her teeth lightly nipped his shoulder, and then her head fell back into the pillow, hair spilled all around her. He pushed deeper into her, her hips cradling him perfectly, wrapping his arms around her as she matched his pace frantically, her gasps turning to whines.

Breathlessly, pallid eyes clouded, she asked, "Why do you hide from me?"

And he knew what she meant, immediately, because, in that moment, they were connected in a way that frightened him, in a way he never had been with anyone else, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to answer her. His demons, his nightmares, his sorrows and pains, all stirred behind that particular wall she tapped at now, with that one question, and he was afraid what they would do to her once they were released, petrified to think about how she would react. And so he kissed her instead, pulling her hips up as he thrusted down one last time, and she tightened around him and he felt fire, white and scalding and relentless, tear down his spine and muscles, and a rasp of her name left him—just as a moan of his escaped her—and he spilled himself deep inside of her, trembling around him and whimpering as his tongue traced the slender column of her throat, moving down to suckle a darkened nipple.

"I love you, too, Naruto-kun" she rasped, and he blinked in surprise, a smile curling his lips in his shock.

She'd heard him anyway. He closed his eyes blissfully, letting her envelope him in the safety of her arms as a cloud passed over the moon and cast them in darkness for a moment or two.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

Hinata Hyuga had not been scared.

Death was heavy in the air around her, a stench that was distinctly a mixture of cooling blood, sweat, slowly decaying flesh, and burning cloth. There was always a flurry of movement, hurrying to defend and attack and evade, shoving all thought to the very back of the mind and taking short, quick breaths as fists collided with faces and bodies and kunai sliced at the air cleanly. And she did not find herself stopping for any long amounts of time, ducking and spinning and slamming her slender palms and fingers into exact pressure points that had been pounded and drilled into her mind endlessly since childhood until she was sure she could do it in her sleep. Her heart thundered and yet she could not feel it, her muscles ached and yet it did not strain her, her eyes pricked with tears and yet it did not stop her... There had been a single thought fueling her body as she ran and flipped and kicked and shoved and stabbed and cut and fought, there behind her eyelids and there in every pant of air, driving her, motivating her to keep going, to never give up.

"___I won't leave you. I'll win, you'll see_."

And so would she, gritting her ivory teeth and narrowing her pallid eyes, black hair dancing around her as she tensed and she waited, palms up and chakra zapping through every nerve and vein, shoving away her fears and sadness as the enemy drew near, entirely prepared to kill her right on the spot. A sorrow she beat down for the deaths that were sure to follow her, the sacrifices made by her comrades, falling around her as blue flared at her hands and she tore and pulled and yanked and pushed and pounded her enemies down—enemies that shouldn't have been alive, enemies that had once been friends, family, neighbors—angry and distraught and terrified to her very core. She had always been gentle, always so kind, but the mask on her face was one she did not recognize, one she caught a mere glimpse of in the sword of her opponent for the brief second before the heel of her palm smashed his nose into his head and a seal whipped from her fingertips, a quick whisper of a jutsu following the hit and then their death was immediate. She stood there in horror, more at herself than the fire beginning to blaze around her, eating away the leafs of the trees and the grass beneath her feet. For a split second she was not Hinata Hyuga.

But for that split second, she had not been scared.

And when she ran from the forest, the fire right on her heels, carrying all of her nightmares on her back, desperation shooting through her bloodstreams—oh, that special, special blood inside her body, the reason for the veins prominent around her white eyes and white skin, the reason for all her troubles and struggles and advantages—she was not afraid. For just a moment. Because there he was, flaming and strong and determined, clawing and shredding the air as he fought with a passion she could never muster up on her own, shouting a silent promise that, ___no_, he would not lose. Not now and not ever. He'd made it this far, so why would he stop now? Why, when the whole world was watching him? ("___And the whole world,_" he'd whispered once as she leaned her head against his shoulder and watched the stars above their village that had been destroyed in just one day, fingers just centimeters from touching and a tender, broken smile on his lips, "___is you, Hinata_.") And for just a moment—___just one little moment in time—_she had fallen to her knees, pallid eyes glistening a glowing yellow, a blistering orange, as fire reflected off her glassy orbs, tears that shone almost red, almost silvery, almost fiery, trickled down her porcelain cheeks, raven hair fluttering in the snapping wind, sticking to her parted rosy lips and cold skin, and she opened her mouth to scream, because for a second—___just _a second—she thought he wouldn't make it.

But Hinata Hyuga had not been scared.

The whole world slammed down and crashed around her, and there he stood, so tall and proud, giving her that faint, broken smile of his, cobalt eyes melting and saying a million things he never would, and he softly whispered, "See, Hinata? I told you." And he closed those eyes when a sudden, exhilarated laugh escaped her, which quickly turned into a happy sob, squeezing her eyes shut and curling her milky fingers into the dirt beneath her, her heart throbbing in her chest for reasons she could never explain—perhaps happiness, perhaps pain, perhaps relief, she didn't know—and a smile curved her lips as the tears fell freely and his hand gently patted her head, swallowing down his emotions and letting her drown for a moment in hers. And war was a hideous thing that she could never understand, something she regretted and something she loathed, but it was there and, ___Naruto_, he had saved them. He had saved her.

And Hinata Hyuga would never be scared. Not with Naruto Uzumaki at her side.

~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

"I'm not strong enough."

She paused, a paintbrush frozen in midair, whose black bristles were covered finely in a sunny yellow, a color much like his hair. She lowered the brush to rest against a wooden color palette, paint smeared and spread artfully, setting it down atop the little table beside her, glancing out the open paper doors where he lied outside on the wooden back porch, on his side with his back to her, watching the rain pouring just inches from his fingertips. Again, he wore no shirt, just a pair of loose beige shorts, falling into the habit of wearing scarce clothing around the house, just as she had begun to wear comfortable dresses or fitting sweats. Today had been a particularly lazy one, and she had decided to simply dress in a pair of his black shorts and a white muscle shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and away from her face. She watched him a moment, clasping her hands at her middle and furrowing her thin brows, unsure how to go about responding to such a thing.

She knew what he meant—just as he had known last night—and she knew why he said it. "___Why do you hide from me?_" It was something she'd asked on an impulse, mind too hazy to think properly. She knew that it was too massive a question to ask him, too much of a burden on his mind. Of course he would eventually answer it, because he always did. He didn't like leaving her questions hanging in the air, he didn't like keeping too many secrets. There were enough between them as it was. He would think them over, measure them, interpret them, in ways he never would with anyone else, and when he was happy with his answer, he would give it to her. This one was no different, and while she was glad he had thought of it, she was pained to see it stress his nerves. She lowered her gaze slowly, tapping the tips of her fingers against each other, mulling over her thoughts.

The rain kissed his fingers lightly, the back of his hand, his knuckles, but could not reach his wrist just quite. They were icy kisses, and left a tremble behind that wasn't out of pleasure, and he licked his dry lips absently, blue eyes dark and pensive. He liked the rain, the sound, the smell, the feel of it. It reminded him of his soul, desolate and cold and unfeeling. And when he felt her warm hand rest over his shoulder softly, he breathed a faint sigh, shutting his eyes and relaxing as her lips pressed tenderly against his ear. "___Fear is a product of the mind_," his Master had once said, long before an untimely demise. "___And, kid, you're filled with it._" His eyes searched her face, lying on his back and reaching a hand up to tuck a black strand behind her small ear, the rain the only sound between them, pitter-pattering across the roof and skittering across the mud outside.

The sky was gray and endless, drops falling in buckets and buckets, heavy and loud but soothing all the same. She watched, letting him stroke her cheekbone with his thumb, fingers light against the side of her head, and then her temple as he moved his thumb lower to her lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but a shadow passed in his eyes and he looked away. He would not let her in. He couldn't. There were too many bad memories and too many obscenities making up the whole of his mind and he just couldn't bring himself to let her see that. It would taint her, he was sure. But her smile warmed her face, and her eyes told him a dozen things she always whispered when he held her, and another breath left him, something cracking inside of him, his fears pushing against the concrete wall he had built, and her fingers caught his face, leaning over him, her nose a hairsbreadth from his own, stopping the world for a minute as she said, so softly it brushed a feathery touch somewhere inside of him he could not explain, a simple sentence with a simple meaning that tore at him in a not-so-simple way, shattered that wall he had built and let his nightmares tumble out freely.

"You've always been strong enough."

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

"Hinata," he murmured, leaning back in a chair as she moved about in the kitchen. Another painting was hung beside his—"___Uzumaki_"she called it, which fit quite well with its spirals and whirlpools of colors and streaks, dark colors and wild dances—and it was sunny and bright and it reminded him of summer, not two months away and yet it felt so far, sprinkling outside once more. She looked at him evenly, patient as only she could be, raising her brows for him to go on. He smiled brightly, tilting his head toward the window. "The sun is out." She peered out the small window in the kitchen, squinting as rain still fell, but streaks of yellow parted through the drops. She felt herself smile and roll back on her feet, pouring the tea as a bird chirped somewhere in the trees outside. She walked back to the table, setting down a cup for him and sitting beside him. "Do you wanna go for a walk?" he asked, letting the steam curl up toward his face, breathing in contentedly.

"Yes, I'd like that very much," she said, bringing her cup up to drink the tea.

"What kind is this?" he asked, looking down at the dark red liquid. It reminded him very much of blood, and he felt his insides turn slightly, yellow brows pulling together and lips pressing into a line slowly.

"Black cherry," she replied softly, closing her eyes and smiling once more. "You'll like it, I'm sure." Hinata never lied, and he didn't think she ever could. Her lips were stained a pretty red from the tea and she breathing deeply, opening her pearly eyes to look at him, which were warm and gentle in ways that tickled him inside.

It burned going down and it warmed his insides slowly, rolling slowly through his body as a sweetness filled his mouth and coated his tongue. He recognized it immediately, a familiar taste, even though he had never tasted it before. He knew where it came from instantly, why he knew it so well, and he leaned over and caught her lips when she set down her cup quietly, surprising her. It lingered on her skin, her hair, a taste he knew as well as the saltiness of ramen, a flavor that he associated only with her, a purely ___Hinata _taste, along with the honey-sweet silver taste of her skin, the flowery smell of orchids and lilies, white as her skin and her eyes and her innocence, and he buried his nose in her hair, kissing her shoulder and ear and then chin, warm, tingling through him, not like raindrops on his fingers or like steel against his back. "I love you," he mumbled, cupping the back of her head and pressing a kiss upon the corner of her mouth, pulling her into his arms. "Don't ever forget that."

She laughed very faintly. "That's all I ever I wanted," she whispered back honestly, smoothing her lips softly against his hot skin. "You know that."

He felt the cool silver against his shoulder blade and pulled away, catching her hand and kissing her ring. "There's gonna be a rainbow outside, Hinata," he said cheerfully, eyes bright and shining like sapphires. He stood and tugged her toward the door. "Let's go chase it."

She let him guide her out onto the porch, smiling as the clouds continued to part above them.

Sometimes, she peered inside the extra room in their house, wondering what it would be like to fill it up with furniture, paint the walls a sweet pink or a sky blue, wondering what it would feel like to have a child with him. And sometimes, the picture was ruined by fire and blood and death, and sometimes she could feel a tingle in her heart and elation in her soul at the thought of him holding a baby delicately in his strong arms, smiling kindly and kissing a little head with sunny hair or raven locks. Sometimes, she could pretend their lives were peaceful and that their wounded hearts and scarred souls could heal properly and they would be free, free from their duties and free from their pain. And he said he felt it, too, as he kissed every inch of her skin and she caressed the scars that both did not and did belong there on his body, bodies melding together, porcelain against his tanned skin, sapphires and pearls gleaming in their eyes. And she smiled because, ___Naruto_, he felt it, too.

And she loved all of him, even the broken parts of his heart. And he loved all of her, even the shattered pieces of her will. Because they were almost the same in that way, even if he did know the pain of hunger and the touch of madness, even if his sorrow could never be quelled. He was there when she cried as she was for him, to spin her in circles and kiss her forehead, to make pictures from the clouds, to tell her stories as they lied on the ground together. And when he was sad, she could put her fingers at the ends of his lips, too, and make him smile, and giggle softly when he pouts. She could play with his hair and soothe him when the bottle inside of him shatters again. Because he was there to hold her when the wars never stopped and the peace never came. Because he was there to take her hand and tell her, with a confidence she could never muster up in a thousand years, that there was no way he was losing. That there was no way he was leaving her.

So, for him, she would do the same.

She would never be scared again, just as long as he was by her side.

"I love you, too, Naruto-kun." And he smiled that sweetly broken smile as they watched a rainbow paint the sky, the wind dance in their hair, grass wet beneath their feet, and hearts newly mended.

"You're my whole world," he whispered, lacing their fingers again between them. "You know that?"

Her silvery laugh was her only response.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

******A.N.********: Yes, they're married.**

******Well, that's it. I know a lot of you liked this story but this is the very end. And, because this got such great response, I will be writing stories about them every now and then for you, whenever I get the chance. Look forward to that.**

******I really liked writing this but I think this third chapter has a slightly different pace than the last two. Could be my imagination, I don't know. But I'm pleased with the results and here you are, so, I hope you enjoyed.**

******Please review, I've been agonizing over this for ****____****weeks ********now.**

******And, for now, goodbye!**


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